


the writing on the wall

by bookhobbit



Series: the biblical noun phrases trilogy [3]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Aroflux Character, Asexual Character, Autism, Canon-Typical Bittersweetness, Cerebral Palsy, Disabled Character, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:10:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6212110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An account of John Childermass's final years in Mr Norrell's service.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1807

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the final part of the trilogy, covering London and beyond. This work will be updated with two chapters every Friday (mostly because I keep forgetting to update and I'm sure that if I take another twelve weeks to post it, I'll forget).
> 
> Once again thanks to OfShoesAndShips for beta'ing and letting me borrow her Childermass headcanons.

###  **  
**

####  January-February 1807 

Childermass can feel change in the air.

The new year brings with it more than a change of the calendar. It brings a visit from the new magicians, which leaves Norrell upset for days before and after. He is strung as tight as a violin-wire, but when he tells the other magicians of his magic, he stands tall.

Or, well. As tall as he can, Childermass thinks with a smile.

After that, of course, there is a challenge.

Childermass thinks Norrell will refuse at first - he remembers the York Society's original invitation - but apparently Norrell's dignity is far too wounded 

Childermass does not know if he has ever seen Norrell more tense. He does not know if Norrell has ever performed magic for any one but himself or Childermass. He stays up nights making notes and gathering ingredients, until Childermass has to tell him to go to bed.

"I need to finish this," he tells Childermass sleepily, and Childermass presses a kiss to his temple.

"Tomorrow, sir."

Tomorrow becomes two more late nights and days spent distractedly sipping tea and forgetting to eat. Childermass sometimes forgets between projects just how intensely Norrell can concentrate on one thing and how hard he can work when he is interested in something.

Hannah brings them both tea-trays laden with toast and cakes, leaving it pointedly where either of them can see it. Childermass is doing reasonably well with his eating issues at the moment; it is only that he, like Norrell, keeps forgetting. Still, he knows she worries.

The day draws nearer and then is there and then it is the appointed hour and he is in York, waiting. 

Childermass does not, on the whole, feel sorry for the Society. They are tiresome men, without much real magic. There is one...John Segundus, that is his name. A small dark man. There is something there, Childermass thinks, and he is pleased the man does not sign the agreement. As for the others, there are a few who perhaps do not deserve to have their occupations taken away, but Childermass feels very little pity for any of them.

But he is glad he goes, because the magic in York Minster is perhaps the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.  He conceals his reaction by habit, but it is far grander than any thing he has ever witnessed Norrell do. He can feel it deep in his chest when it starts, a low humming that expands into the intense sensory deluge that is Norrell's magic. It is perhaps stronger than anything he has ever felt.

He goes back to Hurtfew that night - _home_ he almost thinks - and Norrell is seated by the foyer with a book and a candle. He looks up when Childermass comes in and hangs his greatcoat on the hook by the door.

"How was it?" he asks, rising from his chair.

Childermass sweeps over and kisses him. It is not planned, but he cannot stop himself. He is still welling with the feeling of Norrell's magic and the excitement of having seen something so great. 

Norrell's hands come up to his shoulders and clutch him; he seems a little unsteady, perhaps still affected by the power the spell required of him. Childermass steadies him, hands on his waist, though he still feels not a little wobbly himself. 

"It was beautiful," he says against Norrell's mouth when they part an inch, "Beautiful."

Norrell sighs. "That was not the descriptor I expected."

"Why not?"

"I had thought 'astonishing' or, perhaps more practically, 'successful'. You are not usually so free with your compliments." Norrell kisses Childermass again, softly. "But I am glad you found it interesting."

"I certainly did," says Childermass dryly. "Besides, how else am I to feel? I don't suppose any thing so grand has been done since the days of the Raven King."

He realizes his mistake instantly and expects Norrell to cringe away, but he does not. He looks up, a look halfway between determined and thoughtful on his face, and says, "And now it will be done again."

"And you will be the one to do it." 

Norrell leans in for a third kiss and Childermass meets him halfway, feeling swept away by the lingering giddiness. Magic is coming back. Magic is coming back. For all that Norrell had done, Childermass had not quite believed it could be managed, not in his heart. But now there is no doubt about it.

Norrell does not want to use the newspapers, which is predictable. Childermass talks him around, which is also predictable.

"Strike while the iron is hot," Childermass tells him when the account comes out. "Go to London, and go now."

In the months that follow, as they prepare, Childermass feels himself slowing down, taking in every little thing, knowing that it might be the last time he has it. On the nights where they sleep together, he takes to staying in Norrell's bed until it is time for both of them to rise, instead of sneaking back to his own room. There seems little point when everyone knows already, and besides that, he is continuously aware that this is the end of something, even as it is the beginning of something else.

Norrell seems to feel it too. When Childermass stays to nuzzle lazily at Norrell's neck until he wakes up with a sigh, he rolls over to press a sleepy kiss to his mouth instead of asking him what he is doing there. 

This is perhaps the last time they will have together, and the air is heavy with that knowledge.

Everything will be different in a few months. Better or worse, Childermass has not yet decided. His cards are unhelpfully vague, although he had not expected much else.

He only hopes they can survive it intact.

  


####  March 1807

On the day they leave for London, Norrell is ill.

This is no surprise to himself. Unknowns have always upset him. Even more, changes in his routine throw him into a great fuss. So, in a way, he is expecting it; that does not make it any less unpleasant.

When Childermass comes in to help him dress, he is still lying in bed. 

"Come on, sir," he says. "We need to get going. Long journey ahead of us."

"Mmm," says Norrell unhappily.

Childermass sits down on the side of the bed. He does not have the softness of an on-day, but he reaches out and touches Norrell's brow anyway, his hands careful. "No fever," he says. "I expect it is illness of your nerves."

"I know that," says Norrell, "But it does not make me feel better."

"No," says Childermass, "I don't suppose it does." He brushes his thumb against Norrell's forehead and then stands up. "You try and sit up. I will fetch you some tea and toast."

Norrell manages to keep both down and feels better. Childermass helps him dress - comfortable clothes, the softest ones he can find - and helps him out to the carriage.

For a long while, the journey is silent. They are each, Norrell thinks, doing their own calculating, deciding what changes this will bring, good and bad.

"The house is ready?" says Norrell, breaking the silence.

"Yes, it should be. It is in Hanover-square."

"That is respectable?"

A smile tugs at the corners of Childermass's mouth. "Yes."

"Good," says Norrell, and then silence falls again. 

When they stop to stretch their legs, Childermass gets in on the same side as Norrell, which is odd. It becomes clear when he leans on Norrell's shoulder.

Childermass is too-tall and awkward against him, but Norrell does not want to move him. He feels warm and safe with him there, a soothing familiarity on a frightening new road. 

"Are you quite comfortable?" he asks, acerbic to cover the fondness. 

"Yes," says Childermass. "I am."

"I had thought this might be…" Norrell trails off. "I had the impression you were not interested in matters of this nature today."

"It's a no-kissing day," says Childermass, "But not the other stuff. I am tired. I was up all night packing. You are the most comfortable part of this coach, as difficult to believe as that may be."

Hovering unspoken between them are the words _and I want to be close to you, while we still can._

"If you insist," says Norrell. "I shall not be responsible for it when you cannot sleep tonight because you have spent our journey napping."

Childermass laughs, and Norrell can almost feel the low rumble of it in his own chest.

"I doubt that'll be a problem," he says, and closes his eyes.

The carriage clatters on, bringing with it the usual backache and upset stomach. It is a four-day journey at least, and they take it slow; Norrell does not want to ride hard, though fortunately the weather obliges them by remaining dry for March.  

They stop at inns and save money by sharing rooms, although Norrell can afford a separate one for himself. But the familiar sound of Childermass's breathing beside him is a comfort he does not want to sacrifice. And besides, who knows when they will next find themselves in this position.

It is odd; when they had first started sharing a bed, he had thought he would never quite grow used to it, the way it changed the pull of the bedsheets and the sound of the room. And now…

He banishes the thought. The Restoration of English Magic. A return to the principles from which they have been separated for such a long time. And, for that matter, recognition of his years of labor. That is worth the upset of his personal habits. 

London is the place, and this is the time, he knows it. But that does not make it any easier.

They talk very little, mostly about business matters, on the journey. Occasionally Childermass leans against Norrell again, or Norrell lays his head on Childermass's lap to nap. Childermass always wakes him before they stop, even though Davey quite likely knows.

The last day, as they approach London, Childermass finally speaks of the matter that is on both of their minds.

"We will have to keep it a secret," he says.

Norrell does not ask what he means. "I know. No touching anywhere remotely public, and I suppose you will not be warming my bed very often any more."

This earns him a tiny smile. "No, I'm afraid you will have to be cold."

Norrell nods. "I suppose I shall have to add an extra blanket."

Childermass looks at him for a long while, not speaking. He says, "Beyond that, we'll have to be careful in our manner towards each other."

"Yes." Norrell realizes how informal they have grown, how odd it would look to anyone not used to it the way the Hurtfew servants are. The way the servants he will have to hire in London will not be. He shakes his head. "Secrecy, as you say," he says. "I know."

Childermass nods, and then they are silent.

Norrell hesitates. Childermass's hands are folded in his lap, and he is seated in front of Norrell, staring now outside the window, perhaps planning the proposed secrecy. 

Norrell reaches out and takes one of his hands in his own.

Childermass looks up at him, his gaze steady and thoughtful. 

"Have you an objection?" Norrell looks, not back at Childermass, but at the hand in his.

"No. Would it not be easier to begin as we mean to continue, though?"

"Just once more, Childermass."

Childermass's hand tightens on Norrell's, and that is how London finds them: hands entwined. 

  


####  October 1807

London is, by and large, discouraging.

It is not, Childermass thinks, Norrell's fault exactly. He is doing his best. In fact Childermass is proud of him; he is spending a great deal of time out in the world, being known. That is not nothing, and it will be valuable. But he cannot seem to make any connexions with the people that he needs to, and for once Childermass does not yet know how to help him. The rejection by Sir Walter Pole is a blow, Childermass can see that; unfortunately, he cannot change it. 

Then comes October. October...does change things. 

Childermass does not know what it is that Norrell does that night at Sir Walter Pole's house, but he does know he has never seen him look quite so tired as he does when he returns.

Drawlight and Lascelles accompany him back to the library, where they sit up chatting about various matters. Drawlight plans for newspapers, announcements, accolades. Lascelles - whom Childermass is growing to dislike - merely makes arch comments. 

Childermass has a sneaking suspicion they are going to stay overnight. Most likely to be in proximity to the fuss that is going to be made tomorrow, when the storm begins. He supposes someone has to deal with the public, but he has an instinctive revulsion for both of them that he cannot entirely shake.

But he had suggested they make use of them. 

Norrell does not take long to retreat. "Help me get ready for bed, Childermass," he says wearily, bowing towards his guests.

"Just as you say, sir."

The walk to Norrell's room is silent. He is slumped over, feet dragging, his eyes hollow, as if he has seen things far beyond what he ever wished to. 

Childermass supposes it was not so very shocking that bringing someone back to life should be distressing. That does not stop him worrying. Particularly because he has no way of fixing it. In Yorkshire, if Norrell had had an upset and seemed to desire soothing, Childermass would get him ready for bed and then quietly go fetch a few of his own things. He would undress, lay down, and wait for Norrell to be ready to sleep. If Norrell indicated a desire he would cuddle up close to his back; if not he would simply sleep on the other side of the bed, listening to the sound of Mr Norrell breathing until he himself fell asleep. Sometimes they both might be awake and then, rare but precious occasions, they might discuss magic.

But here the atmosphere is weighted with the knowledge that they are are not alone. Childermass cannot curl himself around Norrell, protecting and being protected at once. He cannot be there if Norrell wakes afraid. Not with the frenzy that would start tomorrow, and not with the guests. Servants might be discreet if paid; Norrell's fair-weather friends will not.

Childermass helps Norrell with his wig and the more difficult buttons, hands him his hot-water bottle, does not touch his skin. He tries to keep himself strictly professional, as much like a servant and as little like a lover as he can. He thinks perhaps that will be easier for both of them.

But when Norrell gets into bed and pulls up the covers, Childermass cannot resist leaning over and smoothing over him, not quite tucking him in. It is a touch-by-proxy, a way of saying _I cannot, but I could if I would._

Norrell breaks the rules by reaching out and squeezing Childermass's hand. The gesture is abrupt, inelegant, graceless, and by this Childermass knows very well that it was not planned out. Norrell had simply wanted to feel Childermass's hand in his own.

His carefully-constructed composure fractures at the edges and he squeezes back.

"We agreed," he whispers, rubbing a thumb across the side of Norrell's hand. "They cannot know."

"I know," says Norrell, "I know. And at this moment the risk - "

"The cause of English magic, sir. Respectability."

"I have done a dreadfully unrespectable thing." Norrell squeezes Childermass's hand again, his mouth twisted into a fragile line. He could break at any minute, Childermass thinks, and his heart stops for a moment at the thought of what could have done this to him.

"Lady Pole?" he asks, keeping his voice low. "What happened?"

Norrell's eyes move away. "I do not know that speaking of it would help." 

"You know I can't help you if you don't tell me what you need help with."

Norrell sighs. "You cannot help me in any case. What is done is done." 

This does not seem the time to lecture Norrell about secrecy and its perils, here in his bedroom holding hands and knowing they must let go soon, knowing no one can know. All the same, it pains him a little not to have Norrell's trust.

But it is no matter. If it is done… He arranges the covers one last time, and then leans down to kiss Norrell's forehead. As he moves away Norrell's hand reaches out to follow him, just a little, and then settles on the blankets.

Childermass leans back against the door, watches him. He looks so small and tired and afraid, but if Childermass stays any longer, he will not leave tonight, and the consequences could be disastrous for both of them.

"Good night, sir," he says, and settles _servant_  back on like a cloak. "Do you require anything else of me?"

Norrell closes his eyes for a moment. "No," he says. "Thank you, Childermass. You may go."

So Childermass does, back to his cold cheerless room. It feels very empty and bare. He could start a fire in the grate and he knows how to warm it with magic, but there seems to be so little point. He undresses, instead, and goes to bed.

The restoration of English magic, he tells himself. Everything you've been working so hard to achieve. Recognition for Norrell, whose talents have gone unacknowledged for far too long. A chance, too, for him to become something greater, although that seems less important these days. He thinks perhaps he cannot untangle himself from Norrell and magic, two things which are intimately intertwined these days anyway.

He tries not to think _I want to go home_ , but the thought slips in treacherously anyway.

  



	2. 1808

####  January 1808

Regardless of the certain perils of Norrell's venture, the new year brings with it a change. For the first time, people are paying attention to Norrell, and it seems to brighten him into someone that is, to Childermass, quite new. He does not think anyone who does not know Norrell as well as he does - and no one knows Norrell as well as he does - would notice, but there is a definite change. 

Though he still flinches when Childermass speaks of Lady Pole, he seems to be adjusting rather well to London, as far as that goes, and even London to him. He is the toast of the town now.

Sometimes more literally than Childermass was expecting. One night Norrell clatters in, rather late and rather loud, and Childermass is amused to note that he does not seem exactly sober.

"Childermass!" he says with unusual good cheer.

"Sir," says Childermass. "Had a bit more sherry than usual, have you?"

"I kept saying no, but they kept telling me to drink it and I did not want to upset them, because they were important, and you said not to upset important people. What are you smiling at?"

Childermass covers his mouth. He does not quite know why the broadening of Norrell's Yorkshire accent delights him so much, but it does, any time it happens. More usual to hear it when he is angry than drunk, but... He says, "Nothing, let's get you to bed, sir."

"I am not tired. I should like to do research."

"I am afraid the research you do would be nothing you would find useful in the morning."

Norrell harrumphs. "I suppose if you insist, then."

"I do." Childermass takes him by the arm and leads him up to bed.

Norrell drunk is apparently rather...handsy, is the only way Childermass can describe it. It is not precisely inappropriate. He just keeps reaching out to touch Childermass's hair, his face, his shoulders, straightening his waistcoat and smoothing his jacket.

"You have ex - ecl - very good hair," he says, pausing in the corridor to run his fingers through it and getting them caught in the queue. 

Childermass reaches up to untangle his fingers carefully in order to prevent his hair being plucked out. "So you have said before, sir."

"I do not know why I do not more often. Can I loosen it?"

"If it would make you happy."

Norrell hums and unties the bit of string with which Childermass usually restrains his hair, and runs his fingers through it again, with somewhat more success. Childermass has to close his eyes against how good it feels, how soothing it is.

"Not here in the corridor, sir," he says, drawing Norrell's hands back down. "Somewhere else. Someone could see."

Norrell manages to make the rest of the trip without causing any more trouble. However, getting him undressed is rather more difficult than usual, because he is just drunk enough to be terrible at all the buttons he usually undoes himself. Childermass patiently works at them, the process complicated by the fact that Norrell keeps trying to kiss him.

"Not now, sir," Childermass says, pushing him gently away.

"Why?" says Norrell, cross.

"You're not entirely yourself just now." Childermass undoes another waistcoat button.

"I am feeling perfectly fine. Very well, in fact."

"I'm sure you are, sir."

"So why will you not kiss me?"

"Not in a kissing mood today, sir." Childermass is afraid Norrell, in his current state will not pay attention to this, but apparently he need not have worried.

"Ah!" Norrell nods. "I will wait until tomorrow. Or the day after."

Childermass tries to hide a smile again and does not quite succeed. "An excellent plan, sir," he says, tucking Norrell up into bed.

"Stay with me," says Norrell, catching his hand. "Sit. Lie down."

"I cannot do both," says Childermass.

"Lie down then," says Norrell crossly.

"I cannot stay, sir. Not for very long." But Childermass is already sitting down. The house is quiet, and he is certain of his ability to sneak off without being discovered if he does not leave too late.

"Just for a little while, then."

Childermass lays beside Norrell, and Norrell looks at him.

"It is working," he says.

"What is?"

"Magic. Bring it back. I am doing that."

"That you are, sir." Childermass pats his hand.

There is a long pause.

"They like me," says Norrell, thoughtfully. "Or, no, they do not like me. They like my magic."

This is such a sad little statement that Childermass almost objects, but he knows it is true and he has never liked to soften such things. Society is not made for Norrell, nor Norrell for society, no matter how much they might vie for the prestige of his presence at their dinner parties and praise his accomplishments.

"They do like your magic," he says instead.

"But they keep asking me to do visions," says Norrell, his brow furrowing into a frown. "Visions, visions. People are ridiculous about visions."

"You are helping the cause of magic, sir," says Childermass patiently. "Think of it as a small sacrifice."

"I have made a great deal already. Look at us. I have sacrificed a great deal of us." Norrell goes on his elbows to stare critically him, and then wiggles forward. "Childermass. My dear Childermass. John. I call you that, you know, in my head, very often." 

To this, Childermass has nothing that he can possibly manage to say. Norrell is going to regret this in the morning, but how does one make someone stop talking?

Norrell drapes himself over Childermass and lays his head on his chest. "Stay the night."

"I ought not. Someone could find out."

Norrell sighs loudly. "This is very inconvenient. We should go back to Hurtfew, John. I told you that before and you did not listen." This last is said with a hint of reproof.

Childermass brushes a strand of short hair from Norrell's forehead. "Bringing magic back, remember?"

"Sometimes it does not seem worth it." Norrell lays his head on Childermass's chest. "I miss you, you know."

"I am here, sir."

"You know what I mean."

Childermass does. He strokes Norrell's hair for a while, thinking of how rarely he gets to do that these days. Touch has to be stolen now.

Norrell shakes him off after a while and tugs at him. "On top of me," he orders, and then adds, "If you do not mind. I am itchy and want to settle."

Childermass huffs and lets Norrell tug him into position. Norrell's fingers are running through his hair again, and Childermass entirely fails to notice that he is falling asleep until it is late.

He wakes halfway through the night and slips off. As much as he would rather stay, it is better to be safe and leave early. He leans down and kisses Norrell's temple before he goes.

The next day Norrell pays for it, of course. Childermass comes to see him in the morning and finds him burrowed beneath the covers, groaning.

"Strong drink is a mocker, Childermass," he says hoarsely, taking the cup of ginger tea Childermass has brought for him.

"Aye, sir," says Childermass.

"Remind me not to do that again. No more than two glasses."

"As you say, sir."

Norrell eyes him suspiciously. "What are you smiling for?"

"Nothing, sir," says Childermass. Norrell had probably not been quite drunk enough not to remember last night's activities, but it is probably better to avoid reminding him of them.

All the same, Childermass does not think he will be forgetting any time soon.

  
  
  


####  May 1808

London has its downsides, of course. The noise, the smells, all the things Norrell had complained about when they had first arrived. And the people, too.

Childermass sees it wearing on Norrell, and in particular as the year winds on and more assignments are given to him, he begins to shew the strain a little. The endless visits seem to exhaust him more, and he retires often to his private study to recuperate.

In light of this, it is quite astonishing that Norrell manages to go so long without an episode. True, he is often on edge and snappish by the time he retires for the evening; it does not bother Childermass much, because he knows the cause, but it certainly worries him a little. But Norrell does not shew any signs of having a fit.

At least, so it seems.

Halfway through one morning, though, Childermass sticks his head in to check on him. It has been a very busy few days, and he has been all aflutter lately. 

"Several gentlemen want an appointment with you," he says. "What time should I tell them to come?"

Norrell flaps his hands. "I do not know," he says. "I am so very busy lately. You know my schedule, do you not?"

"Yessir, but if I make the appointment without checking in with you you'll complain."

Norrell flaps again. "I cannot be made to make decisions right now, Childermass. I am tired."

"Do you want me to cancel the day's activities?"

Norrell sighs. "No. I suppose that would be unwise. I do not want them to think badly of me - it is still too delicate." He sounds as if he is hoping to be contradicted.

"I am afraid it may be," says Childermass. "But I can smooth it over if you need me to."

"No. I will do it." Norrell makes a face. "Ask me about the appointment again later. Or put it in somewhere and tell me later. I need to prepare."

"As you say, sir," says Childermass, going away.

He does not remain for the meeting; he has some business to do, and in consequence he comes back to find Norrell sitting in the library and rocking.

"Sir?" Childermass comes into the room. "How did the meeting go?"

Norrell does not turn to face him, nor does he speak. His mouth works for a few seconds, soundlessly, while he rocks more.

Childermass hurries forward to the chair. "Are you all right? Shake your head yes or no if you can."

Norrell shakes his head.

"Are you hurt?"

Norrell shakes his head again. Not physically, at least, Childermass thinks, looking him up and down.

"Are you overwhelmed?"

A nod this time. He asks, "Do you want me to stay?"

Norrell nods again. 

"Do you need anything else?"

Another nod; Childermass thinks. "To get out of the library to someplace less public?"

A final nod, and Childermass takes Norrell carefully by the arm and helps him up.

In his room, he sits with him on the bed as Norrell shakes and shakes and lets a few silent tears fall from his eyes. His fists are squeezed tightly, nails digging into the palms, and Childermass thinks he is biting his tongue.

Childermass hands him a pillow and he takes it, mechanically, and buries his face in it. Childermass looks away after that, only checking back on Norrell every so often; he knows that, even if Norrell wants company, he would rather not have someone watching him dissolve.   

When it is over Norrell says, haltingly, "I am sorry."

"First one in a while," says Childermass.

Norrell looks guilty. "It is not. I have been having them more frequently, but I did not want you to fuss. I stave them off till night and since we have not been sleeping together - "

"Oh, love," says Childermass quietly. "You know I need to know when something is wrong. How am I to do what needs doing if I do not know what needs doing?"

"There is little you could do," says Norrell, a trace of defiance in his voice now, which Childermass is glad to see, for it means he is coming back to himself. "They will happen no matter what."

"All the same I could have arranged your schedule better."

"I do not know if that would help either. There is so much to do, John, and so much pressure, and they seem to happen. I tried not to have them, but it did not work," says Norrell in a tiny miserable voice.

"You know it does not work," says Childermass, wrapping his arms around Norrell. "You cannot stop them, you have told me yourself."

"Yes, but they are unrespectable." Norrell's hands fidget across Childermass's back, absently tracing vertebrae through cloth. "They do not help my cause, they only cause me trouble, and I wish I could stop having them. I wish I could be fixed."

Childermass closes his eyes and buries his face in Norrell's hair. "You are not broken," he says.

"Am I not?"

"No. Would you be as good at magic as you are if you were not yourself? If you could not concentrate so hard, if you did not find social outings so distasteful? Supposing you wanted to go out, you would have less time to study."

"But must I have one to get the other?" Norrell tucks his head against Childermass's shoulder. "It seems so entirely unfair."

Childermass is at a loss. This does not happen very often, but it is unfair, really, that Norrell should have to endure his senses betraying him and his world becoming too much, so much that he breaks and has to seclude himself in his room to hide his panic from the world. Whatever his other sins, this is not a fair sort of punishment.

"What happened?" he says finally. "With the appointment."

Norrell sniffles into Childermass's shoulder. "Absolutely nothing. That is the entirely foolish part about it. They kept asking things of me and I kept thinking of how much I had to do, and it all just seemed to sort of crash over me when they left, like I was being drowned. Then I heard someone shouting outside the window and it was very jarring and I could not stop it." He is shaking again, and Childermass strokes his hair. 

"Sshh," he says, "You're safe now and it's over. Do you want to go to bed early?"

"Yes," says Norrell. "Will you - I know you cannot - "

"I'll stay just till you fall asleep," says Childermass, gently scruffing Norrell's hair. "Will that suffice?"

"Yes."

Odd, Childermass thinks, that such a tiring day should lead to such peace; he has not shared Norrell's bed in a month or two, incidents being restricted to such times as when they might not be seen. But right now, he knows, Norrell needs reassurance and safety, and Childermass can provide him that.

"Rest now," he says, "Your business will be there in the morning. All right?"

Norrell sighs.

"Thank you, Childermass," he says. 

 

####  September 1808

Ordinarily, Norrell likes privacy in his study. He keeps the door tight shut most of the time and does not allow the outside to intrude.

Today, however, he has a fancy for some fresh air, and so it is open. Unfortunately this means he can hear Childermass and Drawlight outside. At first it does not catch his attention, but then he concentrates on it a moment.

"-very mysterious and handsome!" Drawlight is saying. "Really, sir, I can scarcely believe you are not a great magician yourself."

This vaguely irritates Norrell, although he cannot say why, so he leans far enough out that he can see the two of them. Drawlight is standing quite close to Childermass and looking up at him with an expression that Norrell thinks is some sort of admiration or fondness. 

"I have many other skills," says Childermass. "Magic is not necessary for me to conduct Mr Norrell's business."

"Oh? Indeed? What would those other skills be?" Although this is a perfectly innocuous sentence, Childermass seems to react to something in Drawlight's tone and leans back a little.

"Many and various, including the ability to shoot with a fair amount of accuracy," he says. This tone Norrell knows; he is being very dry and sarcastic. This is frequently Childermass's reaction to the unexpected. It had taken Norrell some time to ascertain this fact, as it is also Childermass's reaction to boredom, insults, and threats. 

"How thrilling!" Drawlight blinks with his large dark eyes at Childermass. "Perhaps sometime you would like to shew me your prowess?"

"I really think you'd rather I didn't," says Childermass, yet more dryly. Norrell tuts to himself. He cannot tell if Drawlight is failing to take the hint or whether he is deliberately ignoring it.

"I am sure I would enjoy it." Drawlight's hand creeps up Childermass's arm in a peculiar finger-walking manner. 

Childermass, Norrell is surprized to note, is uncomfortable. He is subtly rubbing one thumb against his palm, which is generally a bad sign, and his shoulders are tense. 

Norrell sits paralyzed for a moment. What to do? He stands and hurries out into the hall.

"Childermass, what are you about," he says. "Where have you been? I have been ringing for ages. I need your help with this." 

"With what, sir?" Childermass turns toward him. "I beg your pardon, business calls," he says to Drawlight, extracting himself.

"Of course," says Drawlight, looking somewhat startled, perhaps by the suddenness of Norrell's appearance. 

Norrell grabs onto his arm, very near where Drawlight had been walking his fingers up it, and tugs him toward the desk. "I will shew you. Come."

Childermass allows himself to be towed, looking very amused by this turn of events. When Norrell has shut the door - rather emphatically - and settled down, he says, "I did not hear the bell, sir. I am sorry. What do you need help with?"

"That is because I did not ring it," says Norrell. "Is Drawlight still out there?"

"Door's shut tight, sir. You saw to that. And nobody disturbs you in here." 

"No indeed," says Norrell with a sniff. 

"Will you tell me what this is about now?" Childermass leans against the wall beside the desk. "I take it you do not actually need my help - or do you?" 

"Not as such," admits Norrell. "That is to say, not with anything in particular."

"Then why did you come and haul me inside?"

"What on earth was Drawlight doing?"

Childermass rolls his eyes. "You saw that, did you? You need not worry, sir. I know how to deal with men who can't be trusted and I know how to put a man off when he is interested and I am not. You are not jealous, surely?"

Norrell frowns. "Of course not, I know you would not compromise yourself in that manner. But you were uncomfortable. I saw it."

Childermass's face breaks into a slow smirk. "And you were defending my honor, were you?"

"I wouldn't put it like that," Norrell protests. "But how am I supposed to get any work done if he is busy bothering you? It sets a poor precedent. Supposing he took it into his head to trouble you in the library?"

Childermass gives Norrell an odd look. "He has once or twice. You had not noticed, I take it."

Norrell's frown deepens. "He what?"

"Don't worry about it. As I said, I can take care of myself."

Norrell sighs. "I am beginning to think accepting his help was a mistake. I will say that Lascelles has been very helpful in organizing the upcoming publication, but really. If Drawlight has been trouble you about your duties…"

"He did warn you that you would have to set any little irritations against his usefulness." Childermass, for some reason, seems to find this terribly amusing. 

"Little!" says Norrell, shaking his hands in annoyance. 

"There is no harm in him, I think. It is, for him, a matter of sport rather than seriousness, and I do not think he means anything troublesome by it. Trust me, sir, I know these things and I know that Drawlight's little flirtations are the least of our worries." Childermass picks up a pen and twirls it in his fingers, something Norrell sees him do only rarely, when he is at his ease. It makes Norrell feel a little better to see it.

"I suppose so," says Norrell grudgingly. 

"Besides. He did introduce you to all your great friends. You could not have done that by yourself and you know I could not have."

"I do not see why not." Norrell pulls some paper towards himself just to have something to do with his hands. "You know the world."

"Aye, and I know that in the world rich men do not like to be talked to by former pickpockets." Childermass sits down in the chair across from Norrell's desk. 

"They would not know you were a pickpocket." 

"You know what I mean." Childermass pulls the papers gently away from Norrell, and Norrell looks at him properly at last. 

"Besides," says Childermass, "I know nothing of French windows."

Norrell can feel the corners of his mouth turning up almost against his will. "That you do not," he admits.

Childermass glances back at the still-shut door and then reaches across to take Norrell's hands. "He is not going to come between us," he says. "I will not let him."

Norrell's shoulders relax as he laces their fingers together. "I know," he says.


	3. 1809

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS who forgot and is posting this hastily before school again - let me know any formatting issues.

#### April 1809

It is inevitable, of course, that the rise of magic will lead to some strange rumors. Sir Walter Pole comes to deliver one when he asks Norrell for the latest news on his scrying efforts.

"They say the Raven King is bound to return," he says conversationally. "Now that magic is back. They say there is some sort of prophecy."

Norrell frowns. "Nonsense."

"Then you do not think it true?" Sir Walter Pole shifts a bit in his seat. "He would, after all, be able to lay claim to the North of England. At this point in time that would not be a comfortable argument to have. We have one war beyond our borders; another within it would, I fear, be too great a strain."

"It is certainly not true. Wherever the Raven King is,I doubt very highly that it is any place he intends to come back from any time soon. Where these things come from I really do not know. It is entirely absurd."

Sir Walter Pole smiles tightly. "And I am very glad to hear you say it. There are rumors that you are the Raven King's successor."

Norrell opens his mouth and finds that no sound will come out, such is the extent of his indignance. "Successor!" he says hotly. "Repairer is more like it. All he has done for English magic is leave it in pieces, and I am left to pick up those pieces."

"People will tell tales," says Sir Walter, trying to soothe him.

"Just so long as they do not tell the tale of the Cumbrian Charcoal Burner," Childermass murmurs.

Norrell has to stifle an abrupt snicker in the midst of his anger. He has been far, far too vulnerable to that for far too long, ever since that night Childermass caught him reading it. However, laughing now would work entirely against his public disapproval of the Raven King. He keeps his mouth tightly shut and turned down.

"Mr Norrell," says Sir Walter, "Are you quite all right?"

"Of course. Of course." Norrell returns his focus to the matter at hand. "The Raven King, you were saying. These ridiculous tales."

"Indeed, sir. I know of your attitude toward him, but I do feel that foolish stories are not something you need be concerned about. I assure you, no one is planning to act on it. I merely thought you ought to know."

"Nobody planning on bringing Blencathra down on your head," Childermass murmurs.

Norrell clears his throat loudly and abruptly. Sir Walter looks with some concern at him.

"Merely a cough," Norrell says. "They always come upon me in the spring."

"Ah. Yes." Sir Walter looks awkwardly at the library shelves. "In any case…"

"Yes. Thank you for telling me, Sir Walter." Norrell rises and goes to fiddle with his bookcase in order to disguise his own face. Have you any other news?"

"No, sir. That is all. I shall call on your next Tuesday with the plans for the defenses they want you to straighten."

"Of course." Norrell bows, and Sir Walter Pole bows back, rises, and leaves

As soon as he is gone, Norrell turns. "What on earth was that about, Childermass?"

Childermass raises his eyebrows in what seems to be an attempt at an innocent look. It does not remotely convince Norrell. "What was what about?"

"Cumbrian charcoal burners!" says Norrell in disgust. "You were doing that intentionally to make me laugh."

"And what if I was? You do not laugh enough, sir."

Norrell gives him a disbelieving look. "I laugh precisely enough. Besides, ministers are particularly not an audience in front of which one wishes to experience mirth."

"I should think that it is precisely in front of ministers that one would want to experience mirth," says Childermass. "They are terribly dull. I have heard you say so yourself."

"But I cannot afford to become distracted." Norrell crosses his arms. "You are full of the spirit of mischief, Childermass."

Childermass hides a smirk. "You sound like Hannah."

"What on earth did you do to that poor woman this time?"

"That poor woman?" Childermass raises an eyebrow. "How often have I heard you call her an interfering busybody?"

Norrell hmmphs. "Which she is, but not to the degree that I feel no sympathy for her in dealing with your machinations."

"It was when we were children," says Childermass. "I've reformed."

Norrell gives him a look, and Childermass's smirk blooms into full visibility now.

"Making innocent magicians laugh in front of ministers," Norrell intones solemnly. "That is not very reformed of you, Childermass."

"Reformed a bit, then. Say, seventy-five per cent."

Norrell snorts. "Do not do it again."

Childermass shakes his head. "No, sir. You'd be expecting it, and where would the enjoyment in that be?"

"Indeed."

"You can't deny that you needed something to cheer you up," says Childermass, his tone gentle now. "What with Raven Kings and so on."

"I suppose I did, yes." Norrell fidgets with his coatsleeves. "What shall we do about that? We cannot let it stand."

"Leave it for the moment. We will deal with it later. Magic is returning, it is only natural that folk should talk." Childermass shrugs. "You have more important things to worry about at the moment, sir."

Norrell grudgingly nods. But in truth, this is partly a plot.

He has a plan for revenge.

 

#### May 1809

"Agricultural problems?" says Norrell, putting his tea down. He has been called out for a specific purpose this time, at the request of Lord Liverpool. Childermass has accompanied him today at his request. Possibly, Childermass thinks, to protect him from the relentless dullness and endless politicking, but then again perhaps not.

"Yes. I am given to understand that some of the animals are restive, and the farmers thought perhaps you could help them. You see, given the importance of agriculture to the economy, we would take it as a great favor."

"Of course. I shall see what I can do. I certainly hope there are not too many sheep," says Norrell seriously.

Childermass is caught off guard by his own laughter and has to clap his hand over his mouth. There is a smug little smile on Norrell's face, innocent enough not to make anyone who does not know him so well suspicious, but absolutely tell-tale to Childermass.

"Sheep are very recalcitrant creatures," Norrell continues, "I understand they can cause a great deal of trouble, sir."

"Yes," says Lord Liverpool, looking suspiciously at Childermass. Childermass gives him his best stupid look, the one that so infuriates Lascelles, although it is slightly cracked at the edges because he is trying to keep his composure and not quite succeeding entirely.

"Stampedes, even," says Norrell. "A man could get quite crushed in the fray. A very dangerous animal, the common sheep."

"So I understand, indeed." Lord Liverpool looks back at Norrell, confusion written all over him. Childermass has to lift his hand to his mouth and pretend to cough. Once he gives in to that, it becomes increasingly difficult not to go further, but he manages to restrain himself from laughing properly.

"I do not suppose you have any spells that might deal with sheep should we encounter any?" Lord Liverpool asks, apparently getting into the spirit of the subject. Childermass takes a deep breath and steels his will.

Norrell's face goes very, very serious for a moment. "No," he says. "I have absolutely nothing. Not for dealing with sheep."

Childermass can see him restraining his own laughter and it only makes his predicament worse.

"I have learned that at great cost," Norrell says. "Even the Raven King himself, and of course I do not say we should take such a misbegotten wretch as our example, did not do well against sheep. For instance, he once lost a drinking contest to one. The circumstances - "

"Your servant really does not look well," says Lord Liverpool.

Childermass composes his face hurriedly and looks back at Lord Liverpool with as much apathy as he can currently muster. "I am fine, sir," he says, although his voice is slightly choked, thereby weakening his point.

They leave soon after Norrell promises to work on the issue, and as soon as they get into the carriage Norrell says, "Rochdale is no place to visit," and Childermass bursts into laughter, covering his mouth.

"You did that on purpose," he says as soon as he recovers.

"Well, yes," says Norrell with perfect composure. "I had to pay you back somehow."

"Pay me back? Pay me back?"

"Of course. You do remember that last month you made me laugh in front of all of those ministers. I am sure you must."

Childermass crosses his arms over his chest. "You needed it."

"And so do you," says Norrell. "You are far too serious, Childermass."

"No I am not. You're one of the most serious men I have ever known and you would never have said that if you weren't bent on revenge."

"Perhaps not," says Norrell, examining the tip of his stick with apparent interest, "But I am saying it now."

Childermass gives him a hard look. The corners of his mouth are curved and squished as if he is trying very hard to suppress a smile.

"I'll get you back for this," he warns.

"I believe you would do better to let it lie. You cast the first offense, let me remind you."

Childermass sighs. "I suppose there will be no living with you now."

"I have absolutely no idea what you mean."

"This will become your secret weapon. I shall have no more dignity."

Norrell's smile is back, pressing up at the corners of his mouth as if against his will. "Don't be ridiculous. I would not have done this if you had not forced my hand, Childermass."

"Forced your hand." Childermass gives him a look.

"This is your fault in the end, you know."

"'You started it'? You sound like a child, sir. I shall call Davey in to officiate."

"Do not trouble the man about his business," says Norrell, blocking Childermass's stick as he goes to thump it on the roof of the carriage.

"That is because you know he likes me better."

" _I_  pay his wages."

"Money cannot buy loyalty," says Childermass, raising an eyebrow. "I think you'll find that me knowing him from a child means far more."

"He does not even remember you. It does not count. Furthermore, James worked for me longer than he knew you."

"Only just a bit. And did you ever talk to young Davey?"

"Did you?" Norrell folds his arms.

"Of course I did. He was a charming child."

"I have never in my life seen you stop to talk to a child. Nor have I ever heard you describe one as charming. You do not like children, especially ones too young to talk."

"I have no idea where you got that impression, sir."

"I believe it was when you told me, outright, that you did not care for children, particularly ones too young to talk. We were in York and a lady with a particularly loud baby had come by."

Childermass sighs theatrically. "I have spent far too much time with you, sir. What secrets have I left now in my middle years?"

At this Norrell raises his eyebrows. "A great deal, I should think, knowing you. I am sure you have contrived to keep most of your previous life secret."

Childermass shrugs. "You know more of it than any one else, as a matter of fact, save those who were there with me."

Norrell blinks. "I do?"

"I've spent half my life with you, you know."

"I...had not thought of it like that." Norrell gives him a thoughtful look. "I suppose you have, at that."

"And here you are, eroding my dignity by making me laugh in front of ministers."

Norrell covers his mouth, though Childermass sees the smile creeping up the sides of his face. He thinks - yes, the windows are covered and they are far enough away from Hanover Square that they will not be interrupted for a few minutes.

Opportunities to kiss Norrell are rather rare, after all, and it is best to seize the moment. Both of them quite forget about the question of revenge, after a while.

 

#### September 1809

For as long as Childermass has known him, Norrell has been waiting for something. There is a sense, always, of something slumbering within him, of quiet long-held anticipation. Childermass does not think this is conscious, and he does not know what Norrell is waiting for. He supposed at first that it must be the Raven King's return.

That all changes when Jonathan Strange walks into their lives and sets fire to something in Norrell's soul. Whatever it is that has been buried, it wakes then, and Norrell is not quite entirely the same person any more.

Childermass watches the way his eyes light up when Strange does his magic, and how he seems to be drawn to him. Norrell seems, he thinks with a little twist, to have found his other half.

It is only one week into Strange's tutelage when something happens which brings Childermass up sharply. He is waiting outside the library when he hears a sound he has never heard from outside that particular room.

He hears Norrell laugh.

It is the same dry, quiet laugh it always is, slightly breathless, muffled through the half-open door; Childermass would recognize it anywhere. He has elicited it enough to know it well.

It should not startle him the way it does; Strange is, after all, in a position to make the sort of jokes Norrell would find humorous. He knows enough about magicians to be able to take them lightly, and Childermass has observed that his sense of humor is quite dry. These are, really, all the ingredients needed to make Norrell laugh, barring enough time and patience.

All the same, it is… It seems so soon. And Childermass cannot quite shake the sense that he is being replaced.

Ridiculous, of course; what Norrell gets from Strange and what he gets from Childermass are two entirely different things. Although, now that Childermass thinks of it, he has always wishes he could give Norrell just what Strange does now: a fellow-magician, an equal.

He had known when he had embarked upon this venture that their statuses would be a complication that would be a challenge to surmount. He had never expected to become Norrell's equal, even if he has always longed to be his own man and his own magician. Yet seeing that position reified in Strange is...somewhat more difficult than he was expecting.

It makes it worse that Strange is so good at it. He soaks up knowledge like a sponge, comprehending lessons rapidly and making suggestions to improve even Norrell's own knowledge.

"I was thinking about the passage from Goubert," he says sometimes, or Pevensey, or any one of another dozen authors that Norrell has assigned him, "And have you considered a fresh angle on it?"

Norrell invariably listens and either corrects Strange or, more often than he seems to be expecting, agrees with him.

"He is very clever, Childermass," Norrell tells him. "I can scarcely believe he picks things up at such a rapid rate."

"Yes, sir," says Childermass.

"Do you know," says Norrell, looking rather wistful, "I had thought I would never look forward to any thing like this, but now I find that it is good to talk about magic with another magician."

Childermass manages to refrain from pointing out his own knowledge of magic. He has a considerable amount of experience suppressing that particular argument.

"He is much better with people, too," Norrell adds. "It is a great relief to have him along."

Childermass remembers Norrell asking him to come to dinner parties and being unable to do so, because having a servant along would be not be respectable. Having another gentleman and his charming wife along is.

Childermass shakes himself. Strange is good for Norrell. And it is true; Norrell looks happier than he has since they came to London. Possibly, Childermass thinks with a twist, happier than he ever has been. And beyond that, two magicians are good for magic. It doubles the chances of their venture succeeding.

So he encourages it, encourages Norrell to spend time with Strange and be open with him in the way the he never has with Childermass. He watches Norrell's face when Strange is in the room and sees it brighten. He watches Norrell's circle of acquaintances grow. It is, all in all, a good thing.

But he is coming to realize that just because a thing may be for the the best does not mean it does not sting, and every time Childermass hears the sound of Norrell laughing at something Strange has said, he is reminded of both.


	4. 1810

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have the jsmn fanbook you may recognize a piece of this chapter.

#### April 1810

Strange and Norrell are settling in rather well with each other, Childermass thinks. Strange's earlier ambivalence still remains, but it seems slightly less. In truth, Childermass cannot blame him for that; Norrell is still himself, odd and silent and fretful and secretive, and if Childermass was given the choice he would not chuse him for a tutor if he had not known him.

The two of them have a great deal of work to do. It seems that having two magicians has multiplied the load rather than lessened it.

At the moment, the two of them are in the library, plotting out spells in low voices pitched down the way voices so often unconsciously are in libraries.

"Shall we try it, then?" says Strange, dusting his hands off and clearing the table carefully.

"I suppose we might as well."

"Have we water?"

"No, but that is easily obtained." Norrell raises his head. "Childermass, are you busy?"

Childermass puts aside his calculations. "Nothing that cannot be interrupted."

"Fetch us a basin of water, will you, my good man?" says Strange, smiling at Childermass.

Childermass bridles both at the tone and the phrasing. "I am sorry, sir, was that addressed to me?" he says, keeping his tone neutral.

"Of course it was," says Norrell impatiently. "Go, Childermass, we are doing some very important vision magic."

Childermass picks up the jug and leaves, mostly to conceal his own reaction. It is not, when he gets down to it, Norrell's shortness that troubles him. Childermass is quite familiar with all of Norrell's moods by now, and cranky is not unusual. Most of the time, he finds it amusing.

But Strange again. He makes everything more complicated. It is one thing for Norrell to be officious and petulant with him; after every thing he has done for Childermass, and every thing they have been through together, he has earned the right to a little leeway.

Strange has no such background, and it raises Childermass's hackles to be condescended to by him. He thinks the friendliness makes it worse; if he was brusque, Childermass could at least pretend it was all business. But Strange trying to ingratiate himself annoys Childermass. The man has charm, but that is more annoying.

Childermass brings the jug back, shaking his head at himself. He really must remember not to let these things get to him. It is not productive.

"Water," says Childermass, plunking the jug down. He will admit that his lack of grace is intentional, and it is petty, but it does no harm. Norrell will not notice.

Strange gives him a startled glance, but takes the water. "Thank you," he says.

Irrationally, this bothers Childermass even more, but he dismisses the feeling and nods, retreating back to his corner.

Strange and Norrell are whispering heatedly over the basin.

"Trouble?" says Childermass.

Norrell blinks over at him. "Some sort of interference in the way of the vision."

Childermass rises and comes over to look. This, too, seems to startle Strange, but again he makes no comment. Which, Childermass will admit, gives him an advantage over Lascelles and a large number of the other gentlemen that Norrell sees.

"The water is cloudy," he says. "I wonder if that could be something to do with the source?"

"Of course I cannot get running water from a local stream easily here, but that has never been a problem before." Norrell sighs. "I believe it must be an issue with the spell."

"Is it not the standard one for visions?"

"We are trying to modify it to be more useful for the war," Strange explains. "I don't know how much you know about magic - "

Norrell waves. "Childermass has been with me for years and I often talk such problems as I have over with him. He knows as much as you do."

In fact Childermass believes he knows more than Strange does yet, but he does not let on to that particular fact.

"Ah!" says Strange, rubbing his hands together. "In that case. Well, you might think of this as a more bird's-eye view of the landscape. To see how many soldiers, and so on."

Childermass nods. "What are you using to modify it?"

"Largely we are grafting pieces of another spell Sutton-Grove mentions into it." Norrell peers at the basin. "It is not working, though."

"Don't vision spells work with contracts?" says Childermass, remembering that. "Asking the surrounding land, and so on?"

"That is the form of the spell, yes, but it is a formality, not a fact." Norrell shoots a sideways glance at Strange.

Ah, so still hiding things. Childermass raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps changing that form? Ask the sky instead of the land? It would just be a formality, of course, but perhaps it would help." If Norrell is going to play this game, Childermass can play along.

Strange snaps his fingers. "That's an idea. Supposing, sir, that we used the method to speak to invoke clouds that weather-spells use?"

Norrell makes a noncommittal noise. "It could work, I suppose."

Strange turns to look at Childermass. "You are a very knowledgable fellow about magic."

"Childermass knows a great deal about everything," says Norrell, scribbling onto a piece of paper. This causes Childermass to have to conceal a smile containing equal parts fondness and amusement, for he does not wish Strange to draw conclusions.

"I have needed to know about magic to carry out Mr Norrell's business," says Childermass. "Spotting fakes and frauds is impossible without detailed knowledge of the real thing, for instance, would be impossible."

Strange smiles his charming smile at Childermass. "Very impressive."

It occurs to Childermass that Strange is trying to win him over. He is not sure it is conscious or whether some part of Strange simply automatically does this. Or perhaps he can sense that Childermass is mildly unimpressed with him.

Whatever the case, Childermass is quite certain it will take a good deal longer than this to work.

 

#### September 1810

Meetings with ministers are always very dull. There are a world of people talking about politics, which Norrell does not care about, and magic, which they inevitably get horribly wrong. Even worse, Strange has been called away to work on another problem. He does, at least, have Childermass, which helps, but even so. He sighs and fidgets under the table.

" - suppose we could not put beacons along the Scottish border," someone is saying. "I have heard there is still a great deal of discontent with respect to unification even a hundred years on. Supposing they took it into their heads to attack while we were weak from the war?"

"Not sea-beacons," says Norrell. He is certain he has explained this before. "They require the sea to work. I cannot put them inland along the whole border."

"In any case that would be politically inadvisable," says Childermass, "Because - "

The Duke of Devonshire, who is not even in the government anymore and who really ought not be there in Norrell's opinion, raises his voice. Right over Childermass. "On the contrary, I think it an excellent idea. Perhaps there are land beacons you could use?"

"I beg your pardon," says Norrell sharply. "My servant was speaking." He turns his head deliberately away from the duke and towards Childermass.

Childermass raises his eyebrows and continues, "...because it would be a great display of mistrust. You want to present a united front, not divide the kingdom further."

Someone else says, "It's a fair point," but the Duke of Devonshire is glaring blue murder at Childermass.

Childermass himself is covering up a smirk. Norrell can tell. He is not generally very good at reading facial expressions, but he has had eighteen years of Childermass's and he know them quite well by now.

Whether it is a smirk at him or the duke, that Norrell does not quite know, and he spends the rest of the meeting sneaking puzzled glances out of the corner of his eye back at Childermass.

As they get into the carriage on the way home, Childermass says, "That was ill-done. He's a prime minister's son. You could have got yourself into a world of trouble, sir."

"Was he?" says Norrell without much interest. "He is very rude. And he knows very little of magic. It is terribly vexing."

Childermass is wearing that suppressed-smirk expression again but concern overtakes it soon. "You should not be making enemies of powerful men. You will have enough of those without cultivating them."

"He had no right to interrupt." says Norrell irritably. "I was not going to listen to him blathering on. I wanted to hear what you had to say."

Childermass's expression changes to something else entirely; this one Norrell cannot read. It is very guarded, as if Childermass does not want him to know what it is. "I see," he says quietly, and Norrell wonders if he has upset him. He cannot see how.

The rest of the ride passes in silence and Childermass helps Norrell out of the carriage and into the house with his usual manner. But that expression is still on his face.

But when they get into the house, Childermass tugs him by the arm into one of the antechambers off the library. Norrell has no time to worry about this, because as soon as the door closes Childermass pulls Norrell into his arms and kisses him.

Norrell goes "mph" into his mouth, more from surprise than anything else. It is a kiss quite unlike Childermass usually gives. There's a sort of suddenness to it, almost a violence, not of anger but of great and unexpected emotion. It is not bruising, not at all harsh - Childermass would never - but the effect is startling. It is the sort of intensity which Norrell has often glimpsed in Childermass but which he only fully unveils rarely.

Feeling swept away by it, he stands on his toes to bring them closer and clutches at Childermass's jacket for stability.

For a few long moments there is nothing else, nothing but the press of their mouths together and Childermass's arms around Norrell and darkness and silence.

Then, both breathing rather hard, they separate a little. Childermass whispers very close to Norrell, "It was a very foolish thing."

"What?" says Norrell. He is having some trouble remembering exactly what had happened before Childermass had pulled him in here.

"The duke, sir. Mr Lascelles will not be happy."

Norrell flaps his hand in a gesture of impatience. "Am I or am I not the master of this house?"

Childermass's mouth twists into his crooked smile. "Aye," he says. "At least my opinions are still of interest to thee."

"Of course they are," says Norrell with a frown. "You know perfectly well that your counsel will alway be of great value to me, John."

"Do I?" says Childermas softly. He looks very open in that moment, for Childermass; he is looking at Norrell with something in his eyes that Norrell cannot place, but which makes him feel very exposed and hot and embarrassed. Not, somehow, unpleasantly. It is very curious. But then, Childermass has always had the ability to do this to him.

"Aye," says Norrell, which is not quite a deliberate echo, because it is his word too, and Childermass is someone he can use it with. One of the few people.

Childermass looks as though he is going to say something more, but Lucas opens the door of the chamber at that moment.

Which is unfortunate, because Childermass and Norrell are still, to a certain degree, intertwined.

"We were just discussing the meeting today," says Norrell hurriedly. He can feel his face heating up.

"I see," says Lucas, raising one eyebrow. Norrell feels a sliver of irritation, for this is not the first time Lucas has opened a closet door and interrupted them. "You're sacked," he adds.

Lucas looks rather obviously at Childermass, which Norrell should find annoying. He is, after all, still in charge of the hiring and firing, at least in theory. But, well, it has worked out so far, and it does spare him the day to day business of management, and when has Childermass ever mislead him?

He untangles himself from Childermass and goes back to work. If he is smiling just the tiniest bit more than usual, it is no one's business but his own.

  


#### December 1810

At 4:30 pm, Mr Norrell arrives home from a very long day of socializing with what seemed like the entire world.

He feels as if someone has taken his brain, strained it through a sieve, and dropped it unceremoniously back into his skull. Judging by the strength of his headach, they had also been very careless about the sawing of his skull in the process. Everything feels too loud and too bright; voices ring his head and batter at his mind. Even moving is a peculiar strain. His limbs feel too heavy, the air full of static.

Childermass accompanies him inside, leaning heavily on his cane. Judging by the look in his eye, it has been a long day for him too. He asks, wearily, "Will you be wanting your supper?"

"No," says Norrell. "I will be wanting to rest. No one is to disturb me."

His bedroom is dim in the midafternoon light; the curtains are drawn and a little light peeks through the cracks, just enough to see by. Norrell contemplates his bed. After a moment's thought, he takes off his shoes and collapses onto it, face down.

The softness of the counterpane against his face is very soothing.

He is nearly asleep like that, odd as it is, when the door creaked open. Rolling onto his side, he sees Childermass limping into the room.

"What," he mumbles.

Childermass says nothing. Instead, he flops face-down on the bed just as Norrell had.

"This is my bed," says Norrell half-heartedly. "I thought we agreed." He tries for an accusatory tone, but finds, firstly that is he far too tired, and secondly that it is difficult to mind. It feels like a long time since he has been this close to Childermass, and it is a strange comfort.

"My ankle has gone twice today," says Childermass, rather muffled through the blankets.

"Twice in one day?" Norrell sits up a little, concerned.

"Aye."

"It usually doesn't go twice in a week."

"'s right."

Norrell considers this evidence. "Your bed is upstairs."

"It is. I'm not moving."

"Oh, very well." Norrell sighs. "I suppose it is only practical. If you insist on staying, you might as well take your shoes off. You'll get the counterpane dirty."

Without lifting his head, Childermass toes off his shoes and kicked them off the bed.

"You are not going to impress me with your dexterity," says Norrell. "You are showing off. You could have done it properly."

"My shoes are off. I have fulfilled your requirements. You never specified method."

"I suppose I did not," says Norrell. If his ankle has gone twice…

He looks over at Childermass, and makes a decision.

He scoots slowly closer.

"What," said Childermass, "Are you going to kick me out?"

"As you are taking up my space, I am going to warm myself by you," says Norrell. "It is a fair exchange. You must admit it is."

"Oh aye? How are you going to do that?"

Norrell scoots closer and sticks his feet and hands under Childermass.

Childermass snorts. "That's not a very sophisticated plan, sir."

"It works. Ow! Your feet are freezing, Childermass."

"They always are, sir."

Norrell harrumphs, because he cannot think of anything to say to this. "Come on, then," he says, lifting the counterpane.

Childermass snorts. "I thought this was your bed. And now you're offering me blankets?"

"It is not for your benefit. I am cold. My feet are cold. Your feet are freezing. If we both get under the blankets, we will not be cold any longer, and I will not have to suffer."

"Is that so." Childermass props himself up on one elbow. "Just purely practical, then?"

"Aye. Nothing more and nothing less."

"If you insist, then," says Childermass, snuggling down under the blankets.

Norrell pulls the blankets over himself and then squirmed until he is comfortably cocooned.

"You are taking all of the covers," says Childermass. "I know it's been awhile, but I'd have thought you would have retained your manners."

"It is my bed. I believe we have established that this is purely practical."

"All the same, you could have some courtesy." Childermass wiggles towards Norrell.

"What are you doing?"

"I am not letting you have it all your own way." Childermass turns and twists the blankets towards himself, leaving Norrell in a tangle.

"I beg your pardon," says Norrell, and tugs back. Childermass, however, refuses to let go, and in consequence is dragged towards Norrell along with the blankets.

"Give them back, I say," says Norrell.

"No." Childermass scoots forward and wraps his arms around Norrell.

"Childermass," says Norrell, rather muffled, "What are you doing?"

"Warming you up, sir."

"Why?"

"Because I am not going to relinquish these blankets. Have you an objection?"

"Not as such. You are, in fact, very warm. Except your feet. They are still cold."

Obligingly, Childermass moves his feet away from Norrell's. "Better?"

"Yes."

Childermass begins to rub Norrell's back, slowly and gently. Norrell sighs and rests his head on his shoulder.

"There now," says Childermass. "Warming up?"

"Mm." Norrell reaches his arms up and absentmindedly began to pet Childermass's hair. Childermass gives a sigh of his own.

"And what practical purpose does that serve?" he mumbles.

"Do you wish me to stop?"

"Not especially."

"Then sssh."

They spend the rest of the evening curled up under the blankets, slowly recuperating from the day's hazards. Technically, they should not be doing this. Technically, any one could walk in any moment and disturb them. But Norrell has forgotten how much more easily he can untense with Childermass there, how much safer and more protected he feels.

So he lets himself have this, one single moment of togetherness here in a place where it feels all too rare.


	5. 1811

####  February 1811

Norrell regrets allowing Strange to be sent almost the instant he is gone. It is true that there is the booksale to look forward to, which cheers him somewhat, but that is far off and both Strange and Norrell's books are gone now.

They had left at the same time; Norrell had insisted on keeping them in his library until Strange was prepared to depart. Several people had given him some very odd looks over this, but he certainly did not want to lose them without the chance to appreciate them properly first. Supposing he had needed something important from one of them and only found out afterward? It was essential, he had explained to Strange and Childermass, that he have any information he need before they left him.

Strange had given him one of those odd looks, the ones that mean Norrell has done something unexpected, when he had sadly patted the spines of the books in question. But he had not objected to Norrell's reasoning. 

Strange had even wished Norrell a very handsome good-bye, when the time had come. He had arrived at Hanover-square to collect his books, and when they had been stowed carefully in the carriage under Norrell's nervously watchful eye, Strange had bowed very handsomely to him.

"Goodbye, sir," he had said. "I know you had not wished my apprenticeship to be forestalled, but I am afraid I have a duty to my country."

"Er, of course," Norrell had said, clutching at his own coat nervously.

"I hope, of course, to resume my studies as soon as I return."

"Yes, naturally. And if you need any advice at all, you may write to me and I shall answer it as soon as I am able."

Strange had then smiled at him and wished him a very gracious farewell, which Norrell did not entirely hear because he was somewhat distracted realizing that this would be the last time in months, perhaps in years, that he would see Strange smile. He had not known why that had troubled him so much, but the realization is still with him, and still makes him feel strangely tight in the chest.

He does not understand it at all. The first night Strange is gone, he sees no one, and sits up in his library reading until his eyes are gritty. He still cannot settle, though. There are too many things going around in his head.

He wonders to himself if perhaps there is something wrong, like an illness, or some lingering guilt over Strange leaving. After all, without his permission, it would not have happened, would it? It is true that Norrell has done what he did for the good of English magic - it is only right and proper that the books should belong to him, after all - but that does not entirely ease his conscience. 

Childermass lets himself into the library at about two in the morning. "Planning on sleeping any time tonight, sir?"

Norrell blinks at him. "No," he says.

Childermass sighs and sits down next to him. "You need to. What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong. I simply do not feel like sleeping."

Childermass gives him a doubtful look. "You do not do well without your sleep, you know you do not."

"I am not a child, Childermass!" Norrell snaps, closing his book with a thump. "I can look after myself and if I chuse to stay up all night, I will stay up all night!"

There is a silence. Norrell wonders to himself why he reacted so strongly, and then decides that Childermass has not right to fuss and that it is very annoying.

Finally, Childermass says, "Yes, you are, and you can. Will you tell me what is wrong, or will you keep silent on it?"

Norrell begins to be angry, and then halfway through decides he is too tired. Instead he says "Supposing he dies, Childermass?"

"Strange?"

"Yes. Supposing he is shot? What shall I do? He is the other half of English magic!" Norrell cannot bear the thought of losing this such a short time after he has found it.

"He will not be shot, sir." Childermass brushes his hand against the side of Norrell's jacket, as if to straighten it, but Norrell knows there is no wrinkle; it is a gesture of comfort.

"How do you know? Men are shot in wartime, very often." Norrell laces his own fingers and rubs his palms together, the pressure a steadying influence against the clamoring panic of his nerves. 

"Because he is a magician."

"That does not confer immunity from bullets."

"He is too clever to be shot, though."

Norrell takes a deep breath. "He is very clever. He is one of the cleverest men I have ever known. But cleverness is not a shield."

"But it does help you keep yourself out of dangerous situations." Childermass's hand is resting on the table now, far enough to look casual but near enough to be comforting.

"Mr Strange is a very daring fellow. I am afraid he will put himself in dangerous situations as a matter of course - indeed, I suspect he will consider it his duty."

"He will remember his obligation. You know he cares a great deal about magic, and he has a wife, of course."

This last reminder makes Norrell's stomach plummet, although he does not know why. "Of course, that is true," he says.

Childermass looks at him thoughtfully for a moment, as if he has read something in Norrell's face that Norrell himself did not know. "So you are reassured, then?"

Norrell rubs his hands together some more. "I am not sure about that. There is so much that could go wrong. Men die of fever in war."

"That magic might be able to help him with, perhaps. You yourself have talked about the potential for magical cures of physical illnesses."

"I suppose so." Norrell considers the options for this, although he is not optimistic. It is quite hard to develop a fever cure when one is already ill. Of course if word came back that Strange was ill, he would do his very best to find one, but by then it might be too late.

"You will feel better for sleep. You know you will." Childermass glances at the door of the library - it is dark, it being so late - and then reaches out and takes Norrell's hands. "You will be better tomorrow."

"I am not sure I will be," says Norrell. He sighs. "But I suppose you are right. At least I still have you, Childermass."

Childermass gives him an uninterpretable look, but Norrell does not think it is a negative one. So he lets it lie and goes to bed. 

  
  
  


####  June 1811

Public sentiment is not entirely with Norrell these days. Not every one accepts the idea that he does what he can from here in England. Childermass does not realize, however, quite how high feelings are running just now, not until one day they go out and find out for themselves.

It is a fine June day, bright and sunny for once, and Norrell has it into his head to go for a walk. This he does not do very often, but, he tells Childermass, he wants to feel the warm sun for a change. The house in Hanover-square is slightly chilly.

Childermass nods his agreement, though he himself does not feel the cold very much, and agrees to accompany Norrell in case of emergencies. Lascelles is off doing his own business; Drawlight is calling on one of his other great friends. Childermass thinks that perhaps a walk by themselves will be pleasant. They may, perhaps, have the chance to talk.

So he takes his stick and helps Norrell on with his cloak, and they exit the house on Hanover-square for the streets of London.

At first it is pleasant enough. A light breeze is blowing, just enough to refresh him in the warmth of the sun, and just enough for him to think that Norrell was probably right to bring his cloak, his tolerance for the wind being what it is. There is a crowd out in the street, but then, it is Saturday; there is no reason there should not be.

It is Childermass's job to pay attention to his surroundings, though. He becomes aware of it at first as a low muttering, a discontentment somewhere in the crowd around them. He cannot hear just what the problem is, but he draws a little closer to Norrell, instinctively reaching out to protect him.

"Magician of Hanover-square!" barks someone, and Norrell turns to find the source of it. Childermass steps in time with him, as close as he dares.

"What?" Norrell says. 

"Why are you here in England when you could be in Portugal?" The source, Childermass notes, is what looks like a street-magician. Not Vinculus, but presumably a temporary one, back from the outskirts of London where the had all been driven.

Norrell blinks. "Why would I be there?"

"Serving your country, sir!"

The magician is a rabble-rouser, Childermass can tell, most likely bitter about having his livelihood stolen by Norrell. All the same, the muttering of the crowd is growing louder, and Childermass knows very well what can happen when there are too many angry people around, and how easily atmospheres may be transferred from one discontented individual into a whole crowd. He draws Norrell back. He wants to tell his master not to argue with this fellow, that it will do no good, but he has no time.

For Norrell is having none of this. He draws himself up and says, "I am serving my country! I have erected sea-beacons, I have found lost things, I have sent nightmares - "

"A coward's game," says the street-magician cooly. There is a sound of agreement from one or two people in the crowd. "You should be where your country needs you, sir - serving it abroad."

"And what would the people __n_  my country do then? What would I tell those who need me here?" Norrell sticks his chin out stubbornly.

"Cowards themselves, all! Politicians and other such fools!" The street magician tsks and folds his arms. "No, sir, you are no better than the rest of your ilk. Magician of Hanover-square indeed! Where is your yellow-curtained tent!"

Childermass just has time to think that this is very rich given who it is coming from before the magician stoops and throws a pebble.

It is a small pebble, and it misses Norrell in any case; the chances of any damage are limited. All the same, Childermass knows what it signifies, and it is not good.

"Come, sir," he says, and pulls Norrell by the arm. But Hanover-square is in just the direction that the crowd is standing. After a moment's thought he puts himself in front of Norrell and shoulders his way through. Hands grab at him, and a few elbows poke him in the eye, and once Norrell cries out indignantly, as if someone is hurting him. All around them, there is jeering and muttering, and Childermass knows that at any time this could erupt.

They make it out before the first proper stone flies. It knocks Norrell's hat clean off.

"Childermass, my hat!" says Norrell, hurriedly scooping it up.

"Now you see why we must go," says Childermass, tugging at him. Norrell, to his exasperation, still takes time to replace the hat before he goes along the way. He hurries more when another stone flies past them, missing them narrowly. Childermass thinks they are probably not aiming to hit them, not exactly, but that does not discount accidents.

Norrell is out of breath and panicking by the time they get back to Hanover-square; Childermass takes him straight back to his bedroom, without even removing his cloak, and sits him on the bed.

"What was that?" says Norrell rather weakly, wrapping his arms around himself.

"Just one man upsetting a crowd," says Childermass soothingly. "It will not happen again."

"But why - ?"

"Not every one thinks you are doing the right thing staying here, sir. There will always be disagreement on these things."

"Yellow-curtained tents!" says Norrell, shuddering. "What was he implying? That I could not do magic? How dare he!"

"That was one of the fellows you ran out of town."

"Indeed! If so then I am glad of it!"

Childermass sighs. He wants to give Norrell another talk on the inadvisability of making enemies, but they have done no good so far, so instead he sits down beside him.

Norrell finally seems to come out of himself a bit. "Are you all right, Childermass?"

"Aye, sir. None of them hit me."

"You must be a bit shaken."

"I am fine." Childermass brushes a thumb across Norrell's cheek. "But we need to let this pass, sir. No more walks on crowded streets till it dies down."

"You will get no argument from me." Norrell shudders again. "It must have been a temporary madness, I do not know what came over me."

Childermass kisses his forehead. "You are safe now," he says. 

He tells himself, too. He has long since resigned himself to caring about another's life more than his own, but the feeling is new every time it reoccurs.

How very strange, and how very silly all of this is.

 

####  November 1811

As the year drags on, even the minister seem to take against Norrell. Oddly enough, some of them were the same that had been suspicious of Strange at first. Such is the nature of politics, Childermass supposes.

It does not help that the absent Strange is charming and, in the opinion of some, rather handsome, where Norrell is plain and almost entirely lacking in social graces. He is difficult to like, Childermass will acknowledge, and therefore difficult to appreciate.  

Still, the dissatisfaction reaches something of a pitch and nearly boils over when their next meeting occurs. Childermass and Lascelles have accompanied Norrell - Childermass is there only under duress, but Norrell often insists upon bringing him, which is quite gratifying. If nothing else, it is proof that something about his presence is still important enough for Norrell to risk defying convention to keep.

Unfortunately, there is little Childermass can do to help at this particular meeting, for the dissatisfaction has boiled over into blame.

"And can you prove that your commissions are not merely a waste of the government's money?" someone is saying, glaring at Norrell.

Norrell looks startled. "If there is some complaint with my work, I assure you - "

"Can you prove that any of it has worked?"

Norrell looks around the room with a puzzled air. "All the gentlemen have seen me conjure visions."

"Visions are easily done. What about your more substantial projects? For all we know, the beacons you claim to have created do not work!" 

Norrell draws himself up indignantly. "I beg your pardon. I spent a great deal of time and effort upon that request, and if there is any complaint, I would like it to be informed." He turns to Childermass. "Tell them of the history of such beacons in England. You know the Raven King - " He stops and grimaces. "There are many learned personages that have used these sorts of beacons throughout history."

"Then why are they no longer effective?"

"Because magic left England!" says Norrell, exasperated. "I am sure I have explained this. When - that person left England, he took magic with him, and many of the spells he had cast for England's defense fell. I merely reinstate something that should have been there for a long time."

"That may be, but how can any one know if it is true? You are the only one with any magical books, and we cannot test it."

Childermass clears his throat, but before he can begin his defense of Norrell, he is interrupted.

"Gentlemen," says Lascelles, rising gracefully and bowing. "I am sure you all would acknowledge that magic is not your area of expertise."

"Well, yes," says one of the ministers, "But nevertheless - "

"Then why are you so doubtful? Why do you not trust some one who has spent his life studying just that subject?" 

"I suppose - "

"Surely you do not believe Mr Norrell has done any thing less than his utmost? Surely you do not doubt his loyalty and his patriotism?" Lascelles gestures. "Think of all that he has done for you already! Visions, blockades, defenses…"

There is muttering among the ministers.

"They have not all worked," says one.

"No," says Lascelles, "But enough have. You know that, surely. Can you say that Mr Norrell has not changed the face of the war with his work?"

Further muttering. Childermass watches faces; he thinks they are turning opinions. He is not quite so bitter as to begrudge Lascelles that, though he is still annoyed about the interruption.

Finally one of the honorable gentlemen makes a bow. "Of course we are very grateful for Mr Norrell's efforts."

"It is my duty to serve my country," says Norrell promptly and as if scripted. Childermass knows this is probably something he memorized beforehand.

"We all must do our part," acknowledges the minister. "Mr Norrell's work has been very helpful, and you will understand our concerns with the war."

"Of course," says Norrell, fidgeting a little. "Have you any requests to make for me?"

"I believe there is a question of some weather-magic. The winds on the route to Portugal - "

"Ah, yes." Norrell nods, and bows. "If the gentleman will write me a list of timetables and the names of the ships, I will find them and provide the weather requested."

"Thank you, sir."

With that, they exit the house, Childermass helping Norrell with his cloak.

"That went well," says Lascelles.

"Not as bad as it could have," Childermass acknowledges. 

"I can see that you will require my intervention in the future," says Lascelles. "After all, I know you do not find it very easy to talk to people. Have you not said so yourself?"

"I have," Norrell admits. "It is very difficult. You are an excellent speaker, Mr Lascelles."

"Thank you, sir." Lascelles shoots Childermass a smug little glance. Childermass narrowly resists rolling his eyes.

"Mr Lascelles had been very helpful accompanying me to Parliament," Norrell says to Childermass. "Mr Strange not being here. I find it much easier to talk with his reassurance."

"I am sure you do," says Childermass, glancing sidelong at Lascelles, who looks entirely impassive and not at all as smug as he no doubt feels. "Well, provided you're getting your points across, I suppose it does not matter exactly who is helping you."

Lascelles catches the dig and shoots Childermass an icy smile. "Indeed," he says. "Service is service, no matter the hand that provides it." This he accompanies with a scathing glance at Childermass's fingernails.

Norrell entirely misses this little bit of snipping, of course. Just as well, for it would very likely only upset him. 

Childermass considers the interruption, but after all, it had worked. At least the business is over. All the same, he is going to be keeping a closer eye on Lascelles' usurping. It does not bode well.


	6. 1812

####  February 1812

"Well," says Childermass when Lascelles has gone from the library and Drawlight has retreated for more fashionable issues. "Now you know."

"I know nothing very much at all," says Norrell, settling into his chair and feeling annoyed with the world. 

"More than you did. You know you suspect that the book is real and that Vinculus has it somewhere. So do I. He is a liar, but he tells lies that are either grandiose or plausible. This is not particularly either."

Norrell drums his fingers against the arm of the chair. "But I do not have the book, so it does me no good at all. Besides, I am not sure if I agree with your characterization."

"It gives us a starting point." Childermass stretches and sighs. "You can't deny that we are farther along than we were. And you can trust me as to liars."

Norrell gives him a crossways look, not sure what he means by that. It is very ominous, he thinks. "Can I indeed?" he says.

Childermass gives him a look. "You are still vexed."

"I am upset about the cards, as I have every right to be," says Norrell crossly, although in truth he feels easier about it than he did a day ago.

"You don't sincerely expect me to get rid of them," says Childermass. "You say that because you want something to complain about. It has been years that you have known about them, and you have done nothing." 

Norrell hmmphs, for lack of anything else to say. Childermass, unfortunately, has known him far too long and sees straight through it. He ignores it and begins taking off his boots.

"You might do that elsewhere."

"I am nowhere near the books."

This is a good point, Norrell will admit. "Still, have Matthew come and get them. Matthew!"

Matthew - who is, at six feet five inches, tall even for a footman - appears in the doorway. "Yessir?"

"Take Childermass's boots somewhere so that they will not contaminate my library."

"Yes, sir."

As he leaves, Norrell says, "Well, at least he is efficient."

"And decorative."

Norrell looks shocked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Isn't that what gentlemen like tall footmen for? To look nice in their livery? Oh, I see - no, I wasn't implying that." Childermass looks amused. "Though I know there's some in the house as would."

Norrell gives him a severe look. "Gossip, Childermass, is a thing that I will not tolerate." He has no interest in the day-to-day affairs and relationships of servants except insofar as it might result in someone leaving to get married.

Childermass stretches again, and then winces as he tries to stand, falling back onto the couch.

"Childermass?"

"Fine, sir. Just need a little leverage." He levers himself up with the arm of the couch.

Norrell regards him thoughtfully. "I take it you have, as usual, ridden too hard."

Childermass sighs and rolls his eyes. 

"Do not think me insensible of your hard work, but you might preserve yourself better."

"I've told you before that isn't always possible, sir."

"I know," says Norrell, "But still. Come with me."

Childermass raises an eyebrow. "Where?"

"You will see." Norrell takes Childermass's hand and leads him over, up…

"You cannot invite me into my own bedroom," Childermass says.

"I can if I like. It is my house, ergo I can invite you to any part that I like." He tugs reprovingly at Childermass's hand.

"If you insist."

"Besides, I do not merely intend on putting you to bed." 

Childermass raises an eyebrow. "Have a plan, do you? I am a little afraid."

Norrell decides, after a little thought, that Childermass is teazing him, and declines to respond to it. Instead he pushes open the door to Childermass's room. 

He has been in here once or twice before, but he rarely comes without being invited; it is, after all, Childermass's space, and Childermass prefers to have his privacy. Norrell can respect that, being a rather private person himself. But today he has plans, and those plans are best carried out here.

Childermass follows him in, with a slightly amused tilt to his mouth. By this, Norrell knows that he does not object; Childermass does not smile when he is angry.

Childermass sits down on the bed, and there they stay for a moment, balanced on uncertainty; it has been a month since they have seen each other or spoken properly at all and Norrell knows that Childermass's letters were unusual - all business. Of course, that might be because of the difficulty these days in hiding letters which contain any thing else, but Norrell cannot shake the feeling that Childermass is, for some reason, upset with him.

"You had a plan," says Childermass finally. "I was looking forward to finding out what it was."

"Yes." Norrell thinks for a moment, and then pushes Childermass carefully onto his back. "Lie there for a moment." 

Childermass props himself up on his elbows, which will be suitable, so Norrell does not object. He sits down on the edge of the bed and begins pulling Childermass's shoes off.

"What," says Childermass.

This is the reaction Norrell expected, but Childermass is not flinching away or doing anything other than giving him an odd look, so he continues.

"Sir," begins Childermass.

"Have you an objection?"

"No, but - "

"Then ssh. I am concentrating."

With a bemused glance, Childermass subsides and Norrell manages to get his shoes off. As expected, he has his strapping on; Norrell carefully unwinds it, folds the strips of cloth up, and places them neatly beside the bed.

"Cold as I expected," he says, feeling Childermass's feet through the stockings, and tuts.

Childermass's look has gone softer than it was a moment ago. "You should know to expect that by now."

"I should, but somehow I always expect your feet to be more reasonable about such things than they actually are." Norrell gives each of them a quick rub between his two hands. It does not help much, but this, too, is familiar.

Having completed this task to his satisfaction, he tugs the blankets down, unbalancing Childermass, who rolls over onto his side.

"Are you tucking me in, sir?"

"It is the only way to ensure you stay in bed," says Norrell, pulling the blankets back up over Childermass.

Childermass laughs. "You're a fine one to talk about that. Come here." He tugs Norrell down so that their foreheads are touching, and Norrell closes his eyes and sighs at the comfort and familiarity of it.

"I cannot stay," he whispers.

"I know," says Childermass. He takes a deep breath, brushes a thumb gently across Norrell's face. "Why did you come?"

"I…" Norrell cannot entirely answer this question himself, he realizes. He had simply - wanted to be near Childermass and this had been the most practical way. It had been such a long time since they had been in the same room. Not that that is unusual these days, but…

"I suppose it simply seemed like the thing to do at the time," he finishes, rather awkwardly. He adds, sternly, "And you are to stay in bed. I do not wish for you to be incapacitated tomorrow as well. It would be very inconvenient."

"Aye, sir," says Childermass, and somehow, Norrell thinks he heard what he did not say.

  
  


####  June 1812

The trouble, or rather the latest iteration of it, begins with the Duke of Roxburghe's auction. It is to be held in a fortnight's time, and Norrell has high hopes that it will make the loss of his pupil worth it, given how he speaks about it.

To better maximize their chances, the four of them are holding council in the library, which in addition to being a room of scholarship has become a room of war lately. 

"Do you suppose any one will bid against me?" says Norrell, nervously biting at his fingertips.

"I highly doubt that, sir," says Lascelles. "After all, every one knows that you are only there for books of magic, and it is in the best interest of the country that you should possess those. Who else knows how to use them?"

Childermass is of the opinion that Lascelles knows nothing about the business of book-buying. He himself has been at it for over twenty years now, and he knows the number of theoretical magicians who would give their eyeteeth for even a glimpse of a proper book of magic. But after all, it is true that, as Lascelles had said the other spring, the government might be persuaded to interfere, so he keeps quiet.

"I suppose there is no one I need to worry about, then," Norrell says. "All the same, a strategy - "

"You might consider someone representing Strange," Childermass interrupts.

Norrell looks up at him. "Representing Strange?"

"He is not in the country, but he might have left instructions." Or, more accurately, Childermass thinks, his wife might have organized it. There is a woman with more shap than her husband, in his opinion.

"Oh!" Norrell fidgets, drumming his fingers restlessly on the table. "I do not know why we sent him out of the country if he was to leave a representative behind."

"I think the possibility unlikely, sir," Lascelles says in a soothing tone of voice - though not the right one, Childermass notes with just a hint of smugness. 

Indeed, it does not work. Norrell fidgets a little more and then says, "But supposing he does? What shall I do then?"

"Outbid him," says Childermass dryly. "You know you have more money than he does."

Lascelles throws him a scornful look. "To stop to commenting on your master's assets -"

"I do his accounts," says Childermass. 

"That is no excuse." Lascelles' gaze falls on Childermass again. "I have noted before that you really are an impudent fellow. Perhaps you should mend your ways."

"Perhaps _you_  should mind your business, and no one else's."

A flash of rage passes across Lascelles face before it is soothed back into its usual implacability. "Mr Norrell, can you not see how your servant is -"

"Childermass has always been a rather odd sort of servant," says Norrell indifferently. "If it displeases you, you may take it up with him, but you should know by now that I find him invaluable."

Childermass has to work very hard to suppress his own glee at this. He remains impassive only by looking away from the daggers passing across Lascelles' face.

"Very well, sir," says Lascelles. "Of course your choice of servant is your own prerogative. However, we must return to the question of the auction. My advice would be to get there early, sir, and secure yourself a good seat. I am afraid other than outbidding - " Lascelles glares at Childermass - "There is little else that we might do."

Norrell sighs and pulls some papers towards himself. "I suppose it will have to do. I wish the entire business was over and done with. I am not at all very fond of any sort of uncertainty."

"We will see it through, sir," says Childermass, in the correct soothing tone.

Norrell looks up, smiles very briefly and very faintly at him. Childermass thinks he may be the only one who saw it. Then he returns to his work, looking a good deal calmer than he had a few minutes ago.

Lascelles, however, seems to have decided that he is not done; he says in a low voice, "You should know your place, you slovenly - "

Apparently, though, not a low enough voice, because Norrell says without looking up, "Mr Lascelles, refrain from interrupting my servants about their duties, if you please."

Lascelles looks very briefly angry, and then puts on a cooler face. "Just as you say, sir," he says, bowing slightly. "I apologise if I have offended you."

"It is merely that I prefer efficiency in all things. If you have some issue with Childermass, we may discuss it later, if you like."

Lascelles grinds his teeth. "No, sir. I am sure once we get to know each other, our working relationship will improve. I am unused to the ways of Yorkshire servants." He says this last with an emphasis upon _servants_  that Norrell does not seem to notice, but which Childermass hears perfectly. _You are a mere servant and should mind yourself before I get truly angry._

Unfortunately for him, Childermass does not scare quite so easily as all that. Mostly, he wants to laugh at the utter pettiness of it. He is used to pettiness from Norrell, of course, but there is something he finds particularly amusing about Lascelles' particular brand of insecurity. It is as if he is hanging onto his money to have something that makes him worthwhile and interesting.

But laughing would do no good, of course. Childermass plays dumb, which possibly escalates the situation, but does have the effect of making Lascelles even angrier, which is satisfying. He is, Childermass thinks, someone who really should learn to control his own emotional reactions to a greater degree. His temper particularly.

Finally, Norrell looks up at them, and frowns. "What are you two doing staring at each other like that? You look like a pair of broody hens. Have you nothing to do? Go and leave me to work."

Despite being called a broody hen, Childermass considers the entire episode to have been, ultimately, a victory for himself. But Lascelles is still giving Childermass dark looks over Norrell's head, and Childermass knows that the issue will not be settled for a long time yet to come.

  
  


####  September 1812

Despite all Strange's ostensible plans for managing Norrell's workload - although Childermass suspects most of that was part of the ploy to get the books - it is inevitable that things would escalate. Any number of great men had discovered their urgent need for magic, and grown used to two magicians at their beck and call. Now that there is only one, of course he would be somewhat overworked.

All the same, Childermass does worry. Norrell does not do his best work under stress; he thrives when he is given time alone to think through problems, something that is all too rare these days. His longing for Strange's company only seems to make it worse.

"I did not know what having another magician around would be until it came to pass," he tells Childermass one afternoon in the study. "I thought it would be a dreadful thing, and now I find that I miss it terribly. I can write him letters, of course, but it is not quite the same."

"Aye, sir," says Childermass. He again does not point out that Norrell could very easily discuss magic with him; he knows even more than Strange if such things are measured by number of books read. But Norrell will not acknowledge his magicianship, of course. That would make him a threat. Childermass thinks that Strange is only not a threat because he is inexperienced, and therefore his magic is under Norrell's control as his tutor. And Childermass's magic, too, is part of Norrell's, because Norrell is his master.

It is not the strongest foundation for English magic to rest on, Childermass muses. Under the tightfisted control of one man. But he had never had illusions about Norrell's character, after all. That is not why he - is here, he corrects himself, filling in a verb he does not want to use.

In any case, this is midway through the afternoon and Norrell has a meeting with Lord Liverpool in a few hours which he really ought to be preparing for. Childermass peeks into his little study to find him asleep with his head down on the desk, cheek pressing against a book.

Childermass is tempted to leave him there; at least he would be resting. But then, he would unquestionably be fussy from the crick in his neck, and Childermass would be the one called to deal with him. Not that he minds soothing the knots of out of Norrell's neck, but it is work that is best avoided if it can be.

He lets himself quietly into the study and nudges at Norrell's shoulder. "Wake up, sir."

Norrell continues to sleep, and in fact begins to snore gently. Childermass hides a smile.

"Wake up." Childermass shakes Norrell's shoulder a little, and this finally does the trick. Norrell blinks at him.

"John?" he says sleepily, and something in Childermass twists a little, reminding him of how very compromised he is here.

"You fell asleep on your book," he says. "I thought you wouldn't want to wake up that way."

Norrell starts and looks down at the book, smoothing the pages of a crease he had set into it. He tuts loudly, for a change at himself rather than an external target. "I cannot believe myself," he says.

"It is probably a sign that you should sleep more," says Childermass.

Norrell looks up at him. "It seems that you are constantly urging me to sleep. Really, Childermass, I know my own limits."

"Doesn't seem that way right now."

Norrell shakes his head. "It is the work. I have so very much to do. I cannot neglect it simply because of an inconvenient bodily - "

"You refuse to do any magic with a headach."

"I cannot do any magic with a headach. Or a cold. Or a cough. You know I cannot. It is inconvenient, but the disruption invariably makes my magic hard to control." He sighs, and puts his head in his hands. "I wish it did not."

Childermass shakes his head. "That is not what I mean. What I mean is that perhaps if you are actually falling asleep in your chair, that might be a sign that you should be done with your research for the day."

Norrell shakes his head. "I still have so much…"

Childermass hesitates. "I could help you. You know I can do enough magic to - "

"No." Norrells lips thin in disapproval. "I am fine. You are correct; I only need to rest a little and then I will be fit to work again."

_Strange is allowed, but I am not._  It is an unworthy thought, but Childermass cannot quite suppress it. He bows; at least there is this, the fact that he has convinced Norrell to pause his labors for a short while. "I will tell Lord Liverpool that you are indisposed."

"Yes," says Norrell, "Just for a little while. Please tell him I shall not be long. I should not like him to think I was less than dedicated to my duty."

"No one could think that, sir." Childermass cannot stop his voice from softening a little. Norrell may be fussy and difficult to get on with, but Childermass has seen him these past few months working himself to the bone.

He is struck, then, by the urge to lean down and kiss Norrell's temple as reassurance and comfort. The protectiveness that is always just beneath the surface is suddenly very close. 

But this is too public. Any one could come into the library. Childermass settles for a quick brush against Norrell's hand, something that could be accidental, as he reaches for a pot of ink on the table.

Norrell does not look up, but he relaxes the tiniest fraction.

It eases Childermass's bitterness a little, knowing Norrell still takes comfort from his presence, but not entirely. They are still themselves, but he can feel the business with Strange fragmenting them into something else. It helps that Strange is gone, but Childermass wonders what will happen when he returns.

That, though, is a problem for another day. 

For now, as he goes to take the message to postpone the meeting, he wonders much more how it is that Norrell always manages to disarm him like this.

 


	7. 1813

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REMEMBERED TO UPDATE BEFORE I GOT HALFWAY THROUGH MY SCHOOLDAY.

####  March 1813

Norrell does not quite know how it started; all he knows is that Lascelles seems to be increasingly hostile to Childermass. This seems to be the reason why he stalks into the room one day while Childermass is out and lays a sketchbook down on Norrell's desk.

"This is what your servant thinks of you," he says cooly. "Look and see."

"Where did you get this?" Norrell asks, taking the sketchbook.

"Oh! I found it somewhere." Lascelles shrugs. 

Norrell takes the sketchbook and immediately recognizes Childermass's drawing style, although this is not Childermass's ordinary sketch-book, he is certain of it. He also recognizes a rather skewering caricature of himself. He purses his lips. 

"It is certainly not very flattering," he says, turning to the next page, which also has another caricature of himself on it. But then he flips another page and realizes with a start that these drawings are done in a far more realistic style.

Frowning, he pages through the book and finds that it is mostly drawings of himself pasted carefully in. They seem to have been done on different sorts of paper at different times, in pencil or ink, and then later cut out and stuck into the book. There are several of drawings of hands, and he is not a discerning enough art student to be able to judge the owner, but at least one hand is holding a book that he owns. 

There is one drawing of himself with a faint smile, just looking up from a book, that reminds him of a time when Childermass had said something witty about the book he was reading and he could not quite keep himself from a small smile.

There is another where his eyes are closed and his cap is askew and his mouth is relaxed and he realizes it must have been drawn when he was asleep.

It is not caricatured. It is done in a carelessly realistic style, and hasty as if the artist had seen him asleep in his chair one afternoon and found himself unable to resist trying to capture the picture in front of him.

He looks at this one for some minutes, trying to discern the intent behind it. It does not look mocking. Many of them do not, and he does not quite know what to do about it.

He breathes out, carefully. "Thank you, Mr Lascelles," he says in his most studied neutral tone. "I appreciate your bringing this to my attention."

Lascelles, satisfied, goes off to finish his proof of the next addition. Norrell stares at the sketch-book for some minutes. Then he gets up and takes it back to Childermass's room, where it surely must have come from. He does not wish to have the conversation that might result. He does not want Childermass to know he saw it.

Fortune is not with him, however. Childermass returns from his errands and immediately enters the library with the sketchbook in hand.

Norrell winces.

"You weren't supposed to find it," says Childermass, setting it down on the table and sitting on the edge of it, next to Mr Norrell.

"I did not. Mr Lascelles did."

Childermass grimaces. "Even worse. He showed it to you, I take it?"

"Yes, but he did not see very much of it. Primarily the first few pages."

Childermass inclines his head. 

"You certainly seem to have caricatured me a great deal," says Norrell uncomfortably.

"Only when I am annoyed with you."

"You must be annoyed with me very often, then."

Childermass looks sideways at him. "I've drawn you properly," he says. 

"I know. I saw those as well. There was - " He stops. "You drew me while I was asleep."

"...you have a difficult face to get right," says Childermass, not meeting his eyes. "It required practice."

"Oh," says Norrell, subsiding. "Practice, you say?"

"Yes."

"I suppose that is the reason for all the hands, as well."

"Hands are notoriously difficult, any artist will tell you that."

"Yes. Indeed. So I have often heard you say. However, I note that you have a page dedicated to hands in a sketchbook that seems to, er, largely be drawings of myself?"

Childermass seems to pause at this. "Yes, well," he says. "Your hands are the ones I encounter most consistently."

"I see," says Norrell. He looks down.

Childermass reaches out and takes one of the hands in question, slowly so that Norrell can see he is doing it. He turns it palm-up and traces lines on it with his fingers. Norrell inhales sharply and glances at the door, but no-one is there, and Childermass's body blocks the view should someone enter without warning. 

"Why did you keep the letters?" Childermass asks.

"What?"

"I found them in a drawer once. When you had sent me to fetch you the paper for the sea-barrier plans."

"I keep those in a secret drawer, Childermass," says Norrell, and tugs at his hand. He is careful to ensure that it is not a hard enough tug to remove it from Childermass's grasp, though.

"And I had my sketch-book in another."

"That was not my doing."

"All the same…"

"Oh, very well," says Norrell. He tries for irritable but the soothing feeling of Childermass's hand on his is disrupting his stores of irritability somewhat. "If you must know, I thought it best they be hidden should someone attempt to deduce our plans from your past letters."

Childermass gives him a disbelieving look. "Why didn't you burn them, in that case?" he asks.

Norrell wiggles uncomfortably under this scrutiny. "You will have observed that most of the ones I kept have some sketch or other on them."

"Yes, and?"

"I cannot in good conscience destroy works of art," says Norrell. He is aware that this sounds rather feeble as an excuse, but cannot think of anything to add.

"I see," says Childermass, not looking convinced, but he does not press any further.

Norrell looks down at their hands joined on the table and says, "Have you ever drawn yourself, Childermass?"

Childermass's brow wrinkles. "No," he says. "Why? There would be be no point. I can look in a mirror and see myself any time of the day, if for some reason I should forget what I look like."

"I see," says Norrell, and silently vows to himself to keep at least one secret - that tucked away in a little box where he can take it out and look at it if he wants, is the drawing of Martin Pale that Childermass had done while he was away at the booksale he had gone to alone. 

Childermass lets go of Norrell's hand, and they both glance involuntarily towards the door to be sure they have not been seen. It is safe.

Norrell clears his throat. "In the future I believe you would do better to keep your book hidden," he says. 

Childermass rolls his eyes, and Norrell can read _what do you think I was trying to do earlier?_  in them without even trying, which is an astonishing testament to the length of their acquaintanceship in and of itself. 

"Yes, sir," says Childermass, and goes on his way.

 

####  August 1813

There is trouble brewing.

The trouble in question relates to the fact that Norrell is fifty-three years of age; that is not quite _too_  old to marry, not for a determined mother with a daughter who has not otherwise had very many prospects. It is particularly not too old for the greatest magician of the age to marry.

In short, Mrs Farthing has determined to wed her daughter to him.

The daughter is well past thirty, and is therefore rather advanced from typical marrying age. As Childermass understands it, she is quite bookish and retiring, and rather plain. Mrs Farthing and her husband had been determined to make a good match for her, but her own disinterest and her lack of fashionable qualities had made this rather more difficult than they had expected, hence the advanced age.

Norrell, of course, has absolutely no idea about this scheme. Childermass knows because of Drawlight. He is, Childermass will admit, very useful when he wants to be.

"After all," Drawlight says, waving a hand dismissively, "As far as she sees it, they would be a good match. Cynthia has all the qualities which Mr Norrell himself possesses: scholarly aptitude, a quiet demeanor...."

"A complete lack of interest in marriage," says Childermass dryly.

Drawlight smiles slyly. "And that itself makes them a good match. It would be good for Norrell's reputation, you know it would."

"Good for his reputation, bad for his nerves. No, Mr Drawlight, we must put a stop to this."

"Oh, well, if you insist, I shall try to talk the lady out of it, but I fear she is unlikely to listen. Brace yourself, Mr Childermass. I shall try to lessen the impact."

Drawlight, unfortunately, is right; the lady herself shews up at Norrell's house in Hanover-square a week later, bearing her daughter in tow. Norrell receives her in the drawing-room, gazing out the window and, Childermass knows, probably paying more attention to the book he has left than to her.

"I wondered, Mr Norrell, if you could help me. I am seeking a husband for my daughter, you see. She is quite past the usual marrying age for a lady of her excellent breeding, and she begins to despair that she shall ever be married."

Cynthia, Childermass notes, does not have the look of a woman in despair. She has the look of a woman wondering when all this will be over. At present she is engaged in playing with the jet beads on her reticule.

"I do not undertake private commissions," says Norrell, absently rubbing a coat-sleeve. "For that matter, I find that spells involving matters of the heart are very touchy. "

"Oh! But I would count it as a special favor, sir," says the lady. 

"I do not undertake private commissions," Norrell repeats. "All of my time is taken up with work for the government in this time of war. I am sure you understand."

"Very heroic," says the lady. "Is it not very heroic, Cynthia?"

"It is very dutiful," says Cynthia in a bored voice. Childermass feels a stab of sympathy for her.

"I am sure if you had a wife she would be very proud," says Mrs Farthing.

Norrell pauses in his fiddling. "I beg your pardon?"

"You do not have a wife, do you? You are not keeping one shut up in your house in Yorkshire?" Mrs Farther covers her hand with her mouth, as if to imply jocularity.

"No," says Norrell.

"Well then. Perhaps you should have one."

Norrell goes very pale and stands up to pace. "Really, madam, that is a terrible personal remark -"

Childermass, in the corner, has to cover his mouth discreetly with one hand to keep from laughing.

"I am sure you will forgive me the liberty when I say I am concerned for your wellbeing," says Mrs Farthing. "Why! A great man such as yourself to remain unmarried when surely you have much to offer a potential wife…"

"Oh, mother," says Cynthia.

"Well, he does." Mrs Farthing turns back to smile at Norrell, who redoubles his pacing.

"I am a solitary scholar, madam, and I assure you I have no time for marriage. I am sure any young lady would find it very dull. I have hardly any time for personal matters."

"Oh, that would not matter much. Say you took a wife like Cynthia here - "

Norrell looks panic-stricken. Cynthia looks resigned. Childermass once again has to cover his mouth, and he wonders how Mrs Farthing was hoping to make this union work when both parties are clearly quite uninterested in the proceedings.

"Madam, I beg you - I am sure your daughter is a very fine woman, but no doubt she would find it very dull, being married to a magician - "

"I am not a very interesting prospect for a wife," Cynthia puts in.

"Ah. See? From the lady's own mouth." Norrell backs away into a corner. "If you will excuse me - "

Mrs Farthing frowns. "But you must be lonely."

Childermass is amused to see Norrell glance, for a fraction of a second, at him. "Oh, no," he says. "Very rarely. I have my books, you know."

"A very good source of company, I find," says Cynthia, her hands folded on her lap with perfect composure.

"Indeed."

"But you see how well you two would be suited. You are both terribly fond of books."

"I am not suited for marriage," says Norrell firmly. "Now if you will excuse me I have some very important magic to do."

"What, exactly?" says Mrs Farthing.

"I am sure I shall think of some. If you would shew these ladies out, Childermass," says Norrell, and flees the room.

Childermass manages to keep ahold of his composure until the Farthings have gone, Cynthia whispering "I am sorry" to him as they exit. He nods sympathetically at her. 

He comes back inside the house to find Norrell hidden in the library, looking quite pale. 

"Have a nice visit, did you?" he asks, sitting down across from him.

"No," says Norrell. "You were there, you saw. What on earth was that?"

"Fine ladies want to make good matches for their daughters. Perhaps it's me who should be asking if you plan on getting married and running of now."

Norrell gives him a look of deep horror. "No," he says.

"Drawlight said it'd be good for your reputation."

"Mr Drawlight may have my best interests in mind, but he would do well to remember that, should I take a wife, she would almost certainly insist upon chusing my curtains, and he would unquestionably be displeased with her taste."

Childermass laughs. "You know, they will probably be back. Or another one. You are a rich man and an important one, sir."

Norrell eyes him. "Then you will have to deal with it, Childermass. I cannot have my study time disrupted by this sort of nonsense. Besides, I should think you would want to look out for your own interests. Supposing I am married off against my will. What shall you do then?"

Childermass feels a peculiar surge of affection for Norrell then, as he sits there pinch-faced contemplating the prospect of wedded bliss.

"I should be very distressed, sir," he says, reaching over and brushing his fingertips against Norrell's. "Do not worry, sir. I shall fix it."

"Hmmph," says Norrell, and goes back to his book.

  
  


####  December 1813

It seems quite safe, at the time; no one is in the library except them, and it is late at night, and no one is likely to come in. All of the guests have gone home; all of the politicians have been dealt with. The house in Hanover-square is, for once, at perfect peace.

It is in this atmosphere that Norrell brushes his hand against Childermass's while they sit across from each other, reading. Childermass turns it into a proper touch, lacing their fingers together, and Norrell's thumb rubs against the side of Childermass's finger. It is the simplest of touches, but when Childermass finally lifts his head from his book, Norrell is looking at him with a very soft expression.

"What?" he says, tugging a little at Norrell's hand.

"It is nothing," says Norrell, a tiny smile quirking up the sides of his mouth.

Childermass raises his eyebrow. "Indeed? You do not generally stare at me."

In response, Norrell leans over and places a soft kiss on Childermass's mouth, startling Childermass considerably, although not unpleasantly. He takes Norrell's face in his hands and tilts his head just a little so that they fit perfectly together, running a thumb along the edge of his jaw, then kisses him again. Norrell makes a small contented sound and leans a little further across, when - 

There is a clatter and the library door flies open. Childermass and Norrell break apart hastily just a moment before Drawlight enters, looking merry.

"Mr Norrell!" he exclaims, throwing his arms open. "Good evening to you. I have secured you an excellent commission, which you no doubt would have found it very hard to get any other time. Shall I tell you of the details?"

Norrell's face is red. "Perhaps tomorrow, Mr Drawlight," he says, still a touch of of breath from the scare.

"Oh! But I am sure you will be very delighted. It is with Lord - "

"I was just about to go to bed, Mr Drawlight. Thank you for all your hard work, and I shall see you tomorrow. Excuse me."

"Of course," says Drawlight, sulking a little, but Childermass knows he will be back to himself by tomorrow. He bows and exits.

Norrell says, very calmly, "Help me dress for bed, Childermass."

Childermass nods and follows Norrell to his room where, as expected, Norrell dissolves completely into terror.

"Sir," Childermass begins.

"We cannot be found out!" says Norrell, rubbing his hands nervously. "They will ruin every thing. What shall we do? I would die of shame, Childermass."

Childermass nearly reaches out and touches Norrell, but decides that right now it is an unwise idea. "They will not. We have been careful, and it was the nearest miss in almost seven years, sir. If we have been fine so far, we will be again."

Norrell bites the ends of his fingers in distress as Childermass is talking and then says, "But it was, as you say, the nearest miss we have had. How do you know it will not happen again?"

"Unusual circumstances. You know you did not expect him to be here, and that is unlikely to occur again. We will learn from it and be more careful."

"But," Norrell says. "Supposing it had been Mr Lascelles? He walks more quietly than Mr Drawlight. Or supposing it had been both? Who might they have told?"

"But it was not and they did not."

"What about Mr Strange?" Norrell bits his fingers a good deal harder at this thought. "He would think ill of me, Childermass, I do not want him to think ill of me. His good opinion is of great weight to me."

"I know it is, sir, but he is not here, and by the time he comes back we will be ready. Nothing is going to happen."

Norrell's hand-rubbing resumes. "Perhaps we ought to stop. Us. Whatever this is."

Childermass has to take a moment to recover himself; it feels as though Norrell has slapped him. He says, "Do you want to?"

"I do not," says Norrell very quietly, "I believe it would...cause me a great deal of strain. But what if it is the only option?"

"It is not. I promise you, it is not."

Norrell looks up at him. "You do not want to - "

"No. I would rather not either. I do not know quite what we are either, sir, but I believe we are both better for it. If you find it so as well, there are ways."

Norrell takes a deep breath. "Very well. Tell me your plan."

"No more kissing in public spaces. I know we don't do it very often, but we must be firm. Bedroom or a closet. We can be a bit easier with other touch - no proper hand-holding, not for the long term, but it won't matter if you brush up against me." Childermass takes hold of Norrell's hand, very gently, and laces their fingers together, then lets go. "Like that. Provided we keep an eye out, I can say I was taking a splinter out or some such things."

"A splinter," says Norrell in a disbelieving voice.

Childermass smiles wanly at him. "You would be surprized. People are unwilling to see what they don't want to see, and the thought of you and I as...anything other than master and servant is something that people are going to be very unwilling to see. As long as we bluff it out, we will be fine."

Norrell nods. "And what else?

"Just take more care, even when no one is around. If this has taught us any thing else, it is that we cannot count on privacy at any time of the day or night, not in spaces where people might be. If someone barges into your room, or opens the closet door, you might bluster them into not asking questions. But no one but the servants are likely to open an ante-chamber door, and as to your bedroom..."

"I should be very angry if any one came into my bedroom without my permission, except you," says Norrell. "I do not think that would happen."

"Precisely. You see?" Childermass pats him on the arm. "We will be all right, sir."

Norrell takes a deep shaky breath. "Very well." He pauses, and then considers. "I suppose it would be unwise for me to ask you to stay with me tonight - for a short while only, not all night."

Childermass considers. "I could sit with you for a few extra minutes after I have finished undressing you. Would that help?"

Norrell nods. "Yes. You make me feel easier, you see. I do not know how you do it."

This, too, makes Childermass pause for breath, though in a rather different way. "Well, good," he says, and begins untying Norrell's neckcloth. 

When Childermass goes to unbutton Norrell's cuffs, Norrell brushes their hands together just for a moment. And Childermass knows that it is true. They will be all right.


	8. 1814

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week the angst really starts, so enjoy the fluff while it's here.

#### January 1814

Disaster of all disasters, a book has been stolen.

Norrell, fortunately, has not yet noticed. He does not yet know that Childermass has successfully obtained the book. He had come out to a tiny hamlet in Derbyshire of all places to find it stashed away on a farm, and he had not been at all sure that it would be there.

But it had been, and he had paid for it - a quite reasonable price - and he had brought it back to London… And then London had happened.

Childermass is a pickpocket; he should have expected as much. All the same, he is, in some distant annoyed way, impressed. That whoever it was had managed to get away without alarming him until the last moment indicates a considerable level of skill.

He gives chase, but it does no good. The fellow - or the girl, for all Childermass knows, for has has known some very fine woman thieves in his time - is too small and manages to escape successfully by wedging themself into tiny alleyways that Childermass does not wish to run into for fear of skinning his arms off.

So Childermass spends the day scouring pawnbrokers' establishments, which he is not unfamiliar with; books of magic sometimes shewed themselves in such places, taken there by families with no interest in magic but a great interest in eating for another week. Childermass has connexions.

It takes him two long days of rude, suspicious, or oily pawnbrokers before he finally comes upon a tiny shop tucked into a little corner, one he has never heard of before. He ducks his head in and finds a lady sitting behind a stack of crates set up to serve as a counter.

He bows, for there is no harm in being polite. "I am seeking a book, madam."

"Don't get too many books," says the shopkeeper guardedly.  She looks him up and down. "Nor do you look a literary man - though you're not hard on the eyes."

This startles Childermass. He knows perfectly well that he looks like a ruffian - he cultivates the image - but the other thing always catches him by surprize when it comes up. He says, trying to regain control of his situation, "It will be a small book, leatherbound, rather old. Crumbling spine."

"I'll have a look," says the shopkeeper, disappearing into a small curtained-off area in the back of the shop. She emerges a moment later, holding the book. "Is this the one, then?"

"May I see it?"

She puts it on the counter, and he examines it, careful not to touch it. "How much do you want for it?"

"Well!"  says the shopkeeper good-naturedly, winking at him, "That will depend on what you are willing to pay for it!"

"A fair price," says Childermass. He is in no mood to play this game today, even as relatively helpful and honest as the woman has been.

She frowns a little. "Not willing to negotiate?"

"No. Twenty guineas." Childermass pulls the money out of his bag and puts it on the counter. It is only half the book's worth, but in a shop like this it is most likely far more than the asking price.

Her eyes widen. "If that's what you think a fair price is…" She scoops it up and pushes the book back across to him, as if afraid he will change his mind.

Childermass takes it wordlessly and exits the shop, still not relishing the thought of telling Norrell about this little adventure. He can already hear the fussing. He could keep it a secret; this would not be the first adventure he neglected to to his master about for both of their peace of mind, but Norrell expected him back two days ago and he will ask questions. If Childermass does not tell him now and gossip later reaches him, there will be hell to pay.

Sure enough, "You are late," is was Norrell says immediately when Childermass walks into the house in Hanover-square.

"I was delayed," says Childermass, removing his coat. Lascelles and Drawlight, fortunately, are not here. Childermass would hate to have to explain this in front of them. The comments Lascelles would make alone.

"Delayed by what? Did you get the book?"

Childermass pulls it out of his bag and sets it on the table. Norrell picks it up eagerly. "Ah!" he says happily. "I take it the owners were difficult to track down."

Childermass winces. "Not the first time, no."

Norrell looks up at him, brow furrowed. "What do you mean by that?"

"When I got back to London it was stolen."

"Stolen! What do you mean, stolen?"

"Just what I said." Childermass shrugs. "A thief got to it and I had to track it down. Which I did, at the expense of twenty extra guineas."

"Stolen!" says Norrell again, with horror. It seems to give him a strange comfort to recite the word.

"We will make sure it never happens again," says Childermass, dropping into a chair. "I assure you, sir, the circumstances were very unusual."

"Of course they were, but clearly not unusual enough! Supposing some one takes it into their head to get into my library?" Norrell gets out of his chair and begins bustling about, picking up books and notes and depositing them on the table. "I shall make it so that no one can get into my library. I shall make people forget about it the instant they leave. I shall give you a spell to make yourself forgotten and the book invisible. I shall - "

"Sir, please," says Childermass. "You will incur great suspicion and every one will make remarks about you. More remarks, I should say. Calm down."

"How can I be calm when my household has been disrupted and my library raided?"

"One book, which was not in your library or even in your house, was stolen," says Childermass. "I had just bought it for you. It was a minor work. It will not happen again."

Norrell fidgets, and then throws himself into his chair. "I shall increase the wards around my books, even so."

"That is your prerogative, sir."

"It certainly is." Norrell sulks for several minutes in silence.

"Tea, sir?" Childermass finally says.

"I suppose so," Norrell says grudgingly. "It would be better than nothing."

Childermass, in order to give Norrell time to calm down, goes and fetches some from the kitchen himself.

Norrell still looks tense when he returns, which is no surprize. In other circumstances Childermass might risk some sort of physical contact, but it is an off day and he does not think he wants it. Instead he hands Norrell the tea and then pats the arm of the chair. Norrell recognizes this, judging by the way he stops biting his fingernails.

"You're all right, sir," he says.

Norrell sighs, and rests his arm on the chair where Childermass has bestowed his tiny benediction.

"I suppose I am," he says.

This, of course, does not stop him from fretting for the next three days, but at least Childermass knows how to deal with that.

 

#### May 1814

"Mr Strange is coming for breakfast tomorrow!" Norrell says with a good deal more cheer than he usually expresses. Childermass has to double check to make sure that he is not, in fact, a little bit drunk, but his voice is clear and his walk is steady and he does not smell of alcohol. Which means, Childermass thinks wryly, that he is most likely intoxicated with something quite different, but that is something that will bear closer examination later.

"Very good, sir," he says, as Lucas whisks Norrell's coat off to its usual mysterious destination.

"If you could come, I would be pleased. I know you have a great deal of business just at the moment, so of course if there is something more urgent…"

Childermass hesitates, and almost says there is. But he may as well.

"Of course, sir. I shall be glad to see Mr Strange again. Why do you want me there?"

"It has been years," says Norrell, rubbing his fingers absently against the fabric of his waistcoat, "Supposing I do not know what to say? You are good at prompting me. I hardly wish to bring along Mr Lascelles or Mr Drawlight, they know nothing of magic."

"I am sure you will not lack for topics of conversation, but if it will make you feel better..." Childermass shrugs. "I can be free in the morning, certainly."

"Good." Norrell rewards Childermass with one of his rare, shy smiles, and Childermass finds it in himself to smile back. Those seem still less common since they came to London, and directed at Strange when they do come. Childermass should not mind, he really should not.

Strange, when he arrives the next morning, looks different somehow. Not precisely older than his years - Childermass has always thought he had a youthful air, but...matured. More watchful and more alert. Childermass wonders how that will bode for his partnership with Norrell in the future.

He bows very nicely to Norrell, however, and smiles in a way that seems to fluster Norrell slightly. Childermass sighs silently to himself at this. Evidence is building up.

All the same, it does do him good to see Norrell like this - happy, perhaps even excited - after so many years of strain and overwork and worrying. He settles down into a chair when Norrell gestures at him and smiles a little, just a little, at Strange for giving his master hope. Strange smiles back, and Childermass thinks that perhaps he is, after all, being won over in some small way. If Strange makes Norrell happy, who is he to stand in the way?

When they sit down for the meal, Norrell ignores his food asks Strange to tell him of the war. "The magic you used, sir! It must have been quite fascinating."

Strange looks a little uncomfortable, although Childermass does not think Norrell will have noticed. "It was a very difficult situation, of course," he says. "So many new things to do, and so few of them in any book."

"Ah, yes. I would imagine there has not been a war-magician in a very long time." Norrell takes a thoughtful sip of his chocolate, which he has not neglected, and adds "I would suppose the last proper ones were in the Raven King's court. You know the tale of the Raven King's conquest, I assume?"

"I have read about it in _A Child's History of the Raven King_ ," says Strange.

Norrell makes a sour face. "A foolish, romantic work. Portishead is reliable these days, of course, but - "

"I think it an excellent little book," says Strange. "Very readable."

Norrell looks at him as if trying to detect if this is some sort of jest. "Really, Mr Strange - "

Strange waves a hand. "You were saying, sir, his court?"

Norrell blinks, and then seems to decide to let the topic rest for now, though Childermass knows from experience that he will raise it later. "He had many fairy-warriors, of course, as history tells, but it is well known that he trained humans in techniques for magical battles. But of course you fought with the principles of modern magic behind you."

Once again Strange looks distinctly queer. "Of course," he says.

"Do tell me some of the sort of things you employed."

So Strange talks, telling Norrell of city-switching and road-making and rain-bringing and all sorts of other things. Norrell looks rather shocked at some of it, but he only occasionally stops to interject one of his remarks upon the history of magic, or to compare Strange's feats with those of magicians long past. For a significant portion of the time, he watches Strange instead, looking at his long hands as they wave about, or at his face as shifts from its usual ironic expression into brief other ones as the stories unwind.

By the time the dishes are being cleared, Childermass's suspicious have grown by a very great deal.

Finally, Strange rises, and so does Norrell.

"Will you come and study for a little while?" says Norrell, gesturing at the library.

Strange says, "I am afraid my wife expects me back. It has been very little time that I have been back, you know, and she is still making up for lost time. Perhaps I might return tomorrow at our customary hour?"

"Of course," says Norrell. "I shall review the course of your study and see what might be done to improve it in the meantime."

Childermass sees Strange out, handing him his coat and stick. "Thank you for coming to see him," he says in a low voice. "He has been missing the company of another magician."

Strange gives him a small smile. "I would imagine so. He has no one else to talk to about the entire business. I found that a great deal of my trouble, in the war. I could not discuss my ideas with any one, because no one knew any thing. Well, good day to you."

Childermass nods and rejoins Norrell, who is still sitting in the breakfast room, radiating an air of contentment.

Childermass watches him for a moment, then sighs and shakes his head.

He will have to keep an eye on this, if it is what he thinks it is.

 

#### October 1814

Childermass supposes it is quite natural that Norrell would fall ill after such a long period of overactivity. And sure enough, it is only a few months after Strange's return that he complains of a particularly bad headach and an upset stomach.

The doctor seems to feel the same way. "Strain and overwork," he pronounces solemnly when he comes to see Norrell that morning. "I recommend a period of rest - no magic, sir, if you can manage. A little light reading, perhaps."

Childermass privately thinks that Norrell has never done _light_  reading in all his life, and that the prohibition against magic will prove much harder to enforce than the doctor thinks. Still, at least it is nothing serious.

As soon as the doctor is gone, Norrell calls Childermass. "Come and fetch me some books," he says. "I cannot simply lie here."

"You heard what he said, sir."

"Yes, I heard what he said," says Norrell impatiently, "But that is no matter. He does not know me. Understimulation will make me even more ill than overwork. Come, come."

So Childermass does. Norrell also sends him for, in quick succession, a handkerchief, an extra blanket, and a cup of meadowsweet tea.

Childermass brings it all with a smirk, though he has other duties he really ought to be attending to. The last visit takes a few minutes while he makes sure the tea is sweet enough and hot enough, since if it is not Norrell will simply call him back again.

"Mr Strange has arrived for his lesson," says Matthew, poking his head in.

"Oh!" says Norrell, fidgeting with the bedcovers.

"Shall I send him away?"

"No, no. Perhaps I am well enough to receive him. Help me dress, Childermass."

"You sure about that, sir?" Childermass

"Yes. He has only recently returned, I cannot - " Norrell rubs his forehead. "I am certain."

"He has been back for six months. You have had time to catch up. You should rest, sir."

"He said that if you were indisposed it would be fine," says Matthew.

"Send him to the library," says Norrell firmly. "I will be fine."

Childermass notes, not without a certain amount of cynicism, that Norrell has refused to see any of the ministers ever since a hint of his illness cropped up.

He helps Norrell dress, managing to at least talk him into wearing his cap and dressing gown instead of his coat and wig, and helps him out to the library. Since Norrell is still slightly dizzy, this means holding out his arm so that Norrell can clutch at it as they make their way there.

"Good day, Mr Strange," says Norrell, clutching at his head.

"Ah! Sir, are you quite well?" Strange stands up and hurries over to them. "Really, if you were not prepared to see me - "

"The lesson is important." Norrell sits in a chair. "I will be perfectly fine. I assure you."

"Well, if you insist."

Childermass leaves them. These days it is generally more comfortable to do so. He is managing his little flare of jealousy - unwarranted, he tells himself, entirely unwarranted, he is not yours to be jealous of - quite well, but it is easier if he does not have to lurk in the library while the two of them discuss magic.

He spends the rest of the morning seeing to some financial matters. One of the many things that Norrell prefers someone else to deal with is his investments. And then there is the scullery maid, who recently gave her resignation, and he needs to find another, so he drafts an advertisement for the newspaper…

He is quite startled to be interrupted by the sound of the bell ringing frantically, but he rises from his study and makes his way down to the library, still thinking of the advertisement. And perhaps there is someone else who might present themselves. Lucy had been talking about a friend who needed employment, had she not?

His thoughts are abruptly redirected when he sees Strange kneeling beside Norrell, who is draped rather weakly over a chair.

"What happened?" he asks, hurrying over.

"I am fine," says Norrell stubbornly.

"He fainted," says Strange, shaking his head. "Really, sir, I appreciate your concern for my education, but I believe you should go to bed."

"Indeed," says Childermass dryly. "Do you mind seeing yourself out, sir?"

"Of course." Strange nods at him. "Best wishes for a speedy recovery."

Norrell grumbles, but when Childermass takes his arm, he rises.

"I tried," he says while Childermass takes him back to his room. "I did. You saw that. Will you bring me another cup of tea, Childermass? My head hurts and I am very dizzy."

"Of course, sir," says Childermass.

Norrell drinks the tea between undressing and getting into his nightshirt. The fight, fortunately, has gone out of him, so Childermass is finally able to get him into bed.

"What was that about?" Childermass asks, tucking him in when he is ready to sleep. "I've seen you avoiding him with headachs before when you did not want to talk to him. Furthermore, you have had no objection to other visitors leaving you alone to recover."

Norrell sighs. "We have lost so much time when him at war," he says. "It has disarranged my plan entirely."

"And that is all?" says Childermass more softly. "No other reasons?"

"What other reasons should there be?" Norrell's voice turns sharp, and Childermass knows he is right. Whatever else has happened to Norrell, it is, firstly, certain that he is in love, and secondly, certain that he is denying it entirely. Childermass does not want to think about the various ways this could end.

"None, sir," he says, and tucks Norrell up. He hesitates for a moment, and then kisses Norrell's forehead; Norrell makes a soft sleepy sound. "You rest now, and you will be better quickly."

"Will you stay with me?" says Norrell, his voice already tired. "I know you have work, and it is not very safe, but - "

"I will stay for a little while. Every one knows you are not well and they will not come barging into the house." Childermass kicks off his shoes and lies down next to Norrell, not quite touching but close enough to. Norrell reaches out and takes his hand.

Whatever else Norrell may feel, at least he still wants this. At least it is still Childermass's hand he reaches for, Childermass that he asks to stay.

"Your hands are very cold," says Norrell sleepily.

"They always are, sir," says Childermass.

Childermass lays there, writing correspondence in his head, until Norrell falls asleep, then slips his hand free carefully. He kisses Norrell's fingers, not quite sure why he is so soft today, but unwilling to interrogate the feeling.

Outside, it begins to snow, and for just a little while the house in Hanover-square is at peace.


	9. 1815

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> screams of rage
> 
> I alMOST FORGOT i came so close to forgetting I had a meeting today and forgot to set the chapters up last night because of school stuff
> 
> anyway here have some angst

#### February 1815

Strange leaves.

The thought is very short, but it contains multitudes of activity. It contains a long tense silence outside the library while Strange and Norrell talk in low voices. It contains Childermass coming into the room to find Norrell staring at the wall, his eyes bright and blank. It contains Norrell cancelling all his appointments for the day and banishing every one from his library, even Childermass.

Childermass suspects it also contains tears, although he cannot say for sure.

Childermass gives him his peace. He needs time to process this, whatever else is true. He quietly clears Norrell's calendar for the next few days, though he is sure that there will be people swarming the house to find out what will happen.

Well. He will deal with that when it comes.

Before Childermass goes to bed, he stops by Norrell's room, old worn dressing gown wrapped around him. Sure enough, Norrell is not sleeping. His candle is still burning, and there is a book in his hand. _The Language of Birds,_  he thinks, from the cover. Which means a retreat.

He creeps in, and Norrell looks up at him.

"You ought to sleep," says Childermass, sitting down on the bed, which perhaps he ought not to have, but which he cannot quite stop himself from doing.

"I do not wish to sleep," says Norrell.

"I know that," says Childermass gently. "But if you do not sleep, you will not recover."

"I cannot think of it," says Norell. "I could not stop thinking. I do not think I could sleep if I tried." He looks down at the blankets. "Or not alone," he adds, barely audible.

Childermass stills, then sighs. "Nothing would please me better than to stay," he says. "But you know as well as I do. There will be ministers all over your house tomorrow to discuss your break with Mr Strange and if I should fail to rise early enough there would be a public scandal. It is not the same as staying with you for a few hours while you rest - the house is going to be crawling with people first thing in the morning."

"I know that, Childermass," says Norrell, putting his head in his hands. "But right now - " He shivers. "I wish…"

Childermass is not sure how that sentence is to end. I wish Mr Strange had not left? I wish we were back in Yorkshire? I wish to stay awake the entire rest of this night and study until I forget about Mr Strange?

"It is not safe," he begins. "We do not know - "

"John," said Norrell, and Childermass stops. He knows that tone, knows what Norrell needs, and if he weakens now then he will not leave, but he _cannot_  stand by and watch this happen, not without doing everything he can to comfort Norrell.

He says, so softly it is barely a word at all, "Love - "

And then they are kissing, with a sort of desperation that is quite unlike either of them. Norrell's hand clutch Childermass's arm like a man who is afraid he will fall over a precipice if he lets go, and so Childermass holds him steady against the headboard, hands on his waist. Childermass can feel, unspoken, years of hands on chairs and brushing against coats, of standing almost too close but never touching, can feel the way that these things were never quite enough. It has been a long while since they have risked anything longer than the briefest of pecks and Childermass has almost forgotten how chapped Norrell's lips are when he is not taking care of himself, how their noses feel bumping together during breaks for air, the way he has to bend over slightly even when sitting to make himself the right height. Almost.

Norrell is panting when they part, half with their kissing and half with the strength of the emotion he has no true outlet for. Childermass gathers him to his chest, strokes his hair.

"I need - " begins Norrell, "Please, I can't - "

"I know," says Childermass, "I know." He resigns himself to this, perhaps a foolish choice but the one he is making nevertheless. He squeezes Norrell, kisses his forehead, leans back down to kiss his mouth again. It is more tender, this time, less wild. He tries to say with it that he does know what Norrell needs: proof that he is not going to leave him. Proof that he is not abandoned quite yet.

Perhaps Strange took the correct action. Perhaps Norrell is a poor teacher, or perhaps they would never have truly worked, no matter that they have for this long. Perhaps, in the end, it is best that there be two opinions upon magic. Most of the time, Childermass would agree with this. Perhaps this was, after all, Norrell's own fault.

But all the same he is here now hanging onto Childermass for dear life and willing him not to leave too and Childermass does not think he can entirely forgive Jonathan Strange for breaking Norrell's heart.

Norrell is beginning to shiver, which Childermass knows means he is already in a bad state. How long as he been lying here, ruminating on what he cannot change? Childermass tugs him down onto the bed and pulls the covers over them both, then wraps his arms around him and tucks Norrell's head under his chin. Even when they are alone, this is an atypical amount of contact to offer unsolicited, but Childermass knows what Norrell needs. He needs solid proof that Childermass is here. And Norrell's trembling hands clutching as his back tell him that he is right.

"Ssh," he says, "Tha'll be better soon."

"I won't," says Norrell, "I am alone."

That twists into Childermass worse than any knife. After all, has Childermass not stayed through over twenty years of difficulty and secrecy? Has Childermass not given all he has for Norrell, with no reward but Norrell's trust and scraps of magic? Theory discussed late at night after they have retired, a few spells here and there, and the rest anything he can pick up from the books he is permitted to read. That has been enough; _he_ is still here.

Jonathan Strange had not only that, but Norrell's teaching and his love. And his respect, not just as a servant, but as a fellow-magician. And he has thrown that all away. Childermass wants to tell Norrell _he is not worthy of you_ , but he knows that will not help. He knows what Norrell longs for; he knows the half-understood combination of infatuation and desire for an equal. Childermass cannot give him this. He never will be able to. That, too, is its own kind of pain.

Childermass tells himself that regardless of what else may have happened, he is the one who is here. It is him who is holding Norrell, him who stayed with him. Perhaps it is a victory, but it is a hollow one.

"Tha has me," he says, because he does not know what else to say.

Norrell sighs into his skin. "Do not leave me."

"I will not," says Childermass. "I promised."

Childermass tells himself that at least he is needed. That is certainly true. Whatever else may happen, Norrell still needs him.

He strokes Norrell's hair until they both fall asleep.

 

#### August 1815

Things seem to move very fast, as they always do; at first, Childermass had wondered if any thing would happen, and now every thing is happening at once. Strange is back in England now and so of course they must find out how to counter the threat.

Childermass's opinion is that there is no threat, not really, and that Strange should be allowed to do what he wants provided he keeps things civil and sticks to publishing books. But there is no telling Norrell that, Childermass can see it. His cause and himself are inextricably linked, and an attack on one is an attack on the other. Hence, he cannot address Strange's challenges in an objective way.

It worries Childermass, for he knows in his heart that there should always be many opinions on magic for it to flourish. But for now his focus is on getting Norrell to be calm. Perhaps from there they can work toward a place of more security. When he is afraid, he acts, and the decisions he makes are no good ones.

It is with this in mind that Lascelles and Norrell and Childermass have convened a sort of informal council of war.

"We need a plan," says Norrell, turning slightly to Childermass. "What am I to do?"

"It may not be as bad as you are thinking," says Childermass. "If we - "

"Does Mr Norrell require the opinion of a servant?" Lascelles interjects cooly; Childermass can tell he does not approve of Childermass's presence there, and apparently this is how he is chusing to manifest it.

"He asked me," says Childermass with equal coolness. "Perhaps he does not require you to speak for him, Mr Lascelles."

"I do not think it your place to lecture me," Lascelles says, leaning in toward Childermass.

"Please," says Norrell tiredly. "Please, neither of you fight. I need you both. What are we to do about Strange? This book he is publishing, we cannot allow it to stand."

"No, indeed," says Lascelles soothingly. "We shall not. It would damage your cause irreparably."

"Would it?" says Childermass, leaning against the wall. "It is a book, sir."

"A book of magic," says Norrell. "You of all people should know the power in those."

Childermass inclines his head slightly. Norrell's tone worries him; there is fear buried in the anger and that never bodes well. He wants to reach out and soothe him, but they are not alone.

"Aye," he says. "Well. Perhaps you should write your own, then, to counter it."

Norrell gives him a look of horror. "You know I cannot do that! I am not prepared. The amount of material I have would take a terrible amount of time to organize into a book, far too long."

Childermass knows the process would be lengthy; he also knows that they could get it done in time, but for Norrell's fear of publishing. A book about magic, written with heavy input from Lascelles and with the aid of Strange, is one thing; a book _of_  magic, from his own years of extensive notes, is another. All the same… "It is the best solution, sir. If we rush, we could publish before he finishes. What will he do then? We might even be able to find out some of what he is writing about and counter it before he says it."

Norrell shakes his head. "I cannot. I will have to do something else. The best idea, in my opinion, is to stop it before it comes out. Can we speak to the publishers?"

"Perhaps," says Childermass. "I shall see what I can do."

"I shall speak to more important people - perhaps one of your great friends will help you? Sir Walter Pole, for instance."

Childermass gives Lascelles a sideways glance, not having missed the comment about important people. He wonders what John Murray would think to hear such a thing.

"He is very friendly with Strange," says Norrell dubiously. "I do not think he would agree to it."

"Perhaps another one, then."

"Perhaps." Norrell is biting the ends of his fingers, and Childermass knows he would be better if given time to calm down.

" _Perhaps_ ," Childermass says dryly, "You should go and speak to them now."

Lascelles gives him a look.

"Please do. I would rather this was settled as early as possible," says Norrell.

"As you say, sir," says Lascelles smoothly. He looks at Childermass. "You will get what is coming to you," he says in a low voice.

Norrell does not lift his head; Childermass does not know if he did not hear or if he has ceased to take an interest in their quarrels.

Lascelles leaves and the atmosphere of the library calms.

"You should be careful of him," says Childermass.

Norrell rubs his forehead. "I need him, Childermass."

"You said."

"I have no one else, other than you, and what will I do if he leaves?"

Childermass remembers a time when Norrell did have no one else but him; they seemed to get along fine then. He does not say it, but Norrell seems to guess anyway.

He says, "That was then. Scarcely any one knew who I was. You know we made no progress until I befriended Mr Lascelles."

"Until you befriended Mr Drawlight, sir, and you saw what he turned out to be."

Norrell winces at the memory. "Mr Lascelles is different."

"Are you so certain of that?"

Norrell looks away.

Childermass brushes his hand against Norrell's, and Norrell looks back at him.

"I suppose you are also going to tell me you are concerned for my cause," he says wearily.

Childermass shakes his head. "I am concerned for you. Have you been sleeping?"

Norrell rubs his eyes. "Some, yes."

"Not as much as you need to. We'll take care of the book, and then you will be better able to rest."

Norrell gives a sort of sighing hum which sounds very resigned and tired. "I know that the two of you will be able to manage between yourselves. That is why I need both of you. Please try to get along with him."

"It's him who insults me," Childermass points out.

"Childermass…"

"I will try, sir."

But how long with that last, Childermass wonders? He has a terrible feeling that this is going to come down to a contest, and he is not entirely certain any more that he will win it.

 

#### November 1815

It has been over six months now, and Norrell still feels betrayed.

He had harbored hopes, somewhere within himself, that after Strange returned from the war, he would come back to Norrell and ask him to rejoin him. They would be together again, and every thing would be solved. Norrell would not have to worry any more about books or quarrels or any such troubles.

Of course, publically he would never admit that. Denouncing Strange is safer. But then, when has conflict in his own feelings ever stopt him? It certainly has not stopt him with the Raven King.

But that has not happened, and it has been months now that Strange has returned. Public opinion, too, seems to very much favor him, and Norrell frets a great deal. Supposing the general public is not the only one to turn from him?

The point is that Norrell is afraid that Childermass will decide that it is no longer worth the trouble. Supposing he leaves as Strange did? Supposing he joins Strange because Strange will work him less? Or teach him other things?

Bit by bit, Norrell begins withdrawing a few of Childermass's tasks. Some Lascelles picks up; others get assigned to other servants, or hired out to others. He harbors hopes that perhaps this will induce Childermass to stay, if nothing else will.

Oddly enough, this does not seem to make Childermass happy. When Norrell brings up the possibility of getting someone to do the accounts, Childermass looks up at him and says, icily, "Is my work of unsatisfactory quality?"

"No," says Norrell, puzzled. "But you have so much else to do that I thought perhaps you would like the change."

"Well, you were wrong," says Childermass, scribbling another figure down.

"Oh," says Norrell, feeling rather wrongfooted. "Then I suppose you may keep doing them, if you enjoy them."

"It is not a question of enjoy."

"I do not understand you."

"I know," says Childermass.

But the trouble does not truly begin until one evening when Childermass has enough time to help Norrell undress, something which, what with the amount of work he has these days, is becoming increasingly rare.

"Should I hire a valet?" Norrell asks him as Childermass undoes his neckcloth.

Childermass pauses. "Why would you do that?"

"To remove the burden of the duty from you."

Childermass blinks. "I thought you enjoyed…" He seems uncertain how to finish the sentence, and Norrell knows why; precisely what they have is difficult to quantify.

"It is not that I do not. Your company at the end of a long day is still appreciated." Norrell looks down. "It is only that I thought it might be easier."

"Do you not require my services any more, sir?" says Childermass, sounding as though his voice is only steady by effort.

"Of course I do. Why would I not?"

"You are not letting me do my job. First the other things, and then this." Childermass is rubbing his thumb slowly against his palm, and Norell, alarmed and uncertain, does not know how to reassure him.

"It is only that I thought you might - have too much to do."

"Have I been performing my duties unsatisfactorily?"

"No! Not, that is not it at all. I do not want you to feel - " Norrell tries to think of an appropriate word - "Ill-used. Supposing you were to decide that better employment could be found elsewhere? What would I do then?"

Oddly enough, this does not seem to help; Childermass only stares at him for a very long time and then turns away. "I told you I would not leave you."

"Yes, but things happen."

"You do not trust my word, then."

"I thought Strange would be here until he had finished his training, and you see how that turned out."

Childermass actually flinches; Norrell knows then that this was a miscalculation, although he cannot see why. He used to know Childermass so well, he thinks, and he cannot quite remember when that changed.

"I am not Strange," says Childermass, in a low voice. "You should know that by now. Was I not here when he left? Did I not stay with you despite the danger, all the night and many others after? Have I not done all you asked of me?"

"You did and you have," says Norrell. "But I - "

"If you do not know me well enough to know that I would not leave you, _sir_ , perhaps you would rather have someone else." Childermass turns to go.

"No," says Norrell, "Childermass, please - "

Childermass stops. "Changed your mind, then?"

"Do not go."

Childermass closes his eyes and takes a breath. "I am here for as long as you want me."

Norrell finds himself tense, shaky, and sways a little to calm himself. He reaches out to brush Childermass's hand, but Childermass flinches back.

"I am sorry," Norrell whispers, and Childermass shakes his head.

He reaches out carefully, takes Norrell by the shoulders, and embraces him. Norrell rests his face on Childermass's neck and breathes in and out slowly, trying to convince himself that they are all right and not entirely succeeding.

"I do not want you to leave," he says. "Remember that."

"I will." Childermass lets Norrell go. "I have duties to attend to now, sir." He gives a brief, wan smile. "If you'll allow me to keep up with them."

"I...yes." Norrell clears his throat. "Of course." He wants to ask Childermass to stay, to see what would happen; he wants the comfort of his presence, wants to curl up on the bed with him and fall asleep together the way they used to. But he cannot have any of that; there is too much else to do. Besides, supposing Childermass does not want it any more? Norrell does not think he can stand to be pushed away again.

So he lets Childermass help him off with the rest of his clothes, quietly memorizing the too-familiar feeling of Childermass's touch so present and yet so distant, and then goes to bed. Perhaps if he can sleep, things will be better in the morning.

They have not been so far, but it is his only hope.


	10. 1816

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after this, it'll be one more full chapter, and then the epilogue, which is postcanon. Golly.

####  January 1816

January is horrible. There are a number of reasons for this, but the primary one is that Childermass almost dies.

It scares Norrell so very badly that he wants to be angry, and he has exhausted all his anger with Lady Pole, so he is angry at Childermass. Besides being afraid that he would die, he is now also afraid that Childermass will leave him. There is Strange's side now and Strange talks of the Raven King and wild magic and all the sorts of things that Childermass believes in. Why should he stay with Norrell, then?

Childermass sleeps for days; Norrell comes in to check, fluttering nervously around the room and never quite landing, while the doctor gives him laudenum. Norrell cannot watch while he changes the bandages. It is then that the anger grows, brought on by fear; how dare Childermass be so gravely injured? How dare he be sympathetic to Strange's position? How dare he do magic when Norrell is so besieged by people who want to take it from him?

And so, naturally, they argue when Childermass wakes up. Norrell wishes he could tell Childermass how worried he was, how terribly he would miss him, but it all comes pouring out in a sort of hysterical rage. And there are barriers now between them that there had not been before; they are far more servant and master than they were two years ago. Norrell has so many secrets, and Childermass is drawing away, and Norrell is terrified that if he reaches out he will be rejected.

So he does not, not properly. He knows himself to be behaving foolishly when he reaches out to pat Childermass's hand, but this is not the only foolish choice he has made these days.

He does not return until the next day, when the house is a little emptier and Sir Walter Pole has taken Lady Pole home for seclusion. He still does not know what is to be done with her - there, again, he needs Childermass. If pressed, he would say this is the reason that he goes to see him.

The truth, though, is much simpler: somehow, Norrell feels comforted by his presence, and he feels very in need of comfort right now. Even if Childermass is asleep, being in the same room with him makes Norrell feel safer, more secure, as if even in repose Childermass is capable of shielding him from the outside world.

And, indeed, Childermass is resting. He looks troubled even in sleep; perhaps the nightmares are haunting him again, or perhaps it is merely the pain. Norrell drags the chair over to his bedside and watches the rise and fall of his chest, the way expressions pass over his face for a moment and then are gone.

He wakes up after a while, blinking slowly until his eyes stay open and then focus on Norrell.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, and it makes Norrell wince that he has to ask.

"You are in my room," he says, instead of the truth.

"Don't know why, either," says Childermass. "Meant to ask you that earlier, but you went."

"It was the closest." Norrell stares at his hands. "How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"Good."

There is a long pause while Norrell shifts his gaze to his feet and stares at them for a while.

"The doctor tells me you will be abed for a few days more," he manages finally.

"Yes. I am sorry, I shall not be able to deal with Lady Pole till then."

"That is not what I meant," says Norrell quickly. "That is not what I meant at all. I….you should rest. You have been shot." _Shot for me_ , he thinks, and for some reason the feeling makes the tide of panic rise in his chest.

Childermass sits up, wincing as he does so. "Tell me what you did mean, then."

Norrell says, very quietly and very timidly, "Do not leave me."

Childermass sighs; he still looks tired. "I will not. Did I not tell you I wouldn't?"

Norrell reaches out for Childermass's hand.

"You had best not be planning to pat me," Childermass says. "Don't think I did not see that."

Norrell draws back, looks away, and Childermass shakes his head. "I did not say you could not touch me, but do not dare do it as a condescension. I deserve better than that. You know I do."

Norrell shakes his head. He is not denying it - which Childermass seems to understand - but expressing how lost he feels. "I do not know what to do," he says.

"I know," says Childermass, turning away. Norrell can feel this slipping through his fingers, can feel the barriers between them widening. He puts his hand on Childermass's, the lightest touch he can manage, because he is so afraid of being thrown off.  

He watches the unsteady rise and fall of Childermass's chest instead of his face as Childermass's hand turns to take his, deepen their contact. 

Norrell wants to say _I'm sorry_. He wants to say I _was so afraid for you_. He wants to say _I am afraid I have already lost you_. But he does not know how to start. 

They sit there holding hands for a few minutes while Norrell tries to remember how to speak at all. 

"I would like to rest, if you've nothing more to say," Childermass says finally, and Norrell knows that the moment is over.

"Of course." The formality comes rushing back between them like a shield, the only thing left protecting Norrell from his own sorrow. He inclines his head slightly and rises.

He tells himself as he leaves that it is better this way. Simpler. They have so much else to concentrate on, and this, whatever it is they had or have, has always been a complication. They need to stop Strange, and get magic back on track, and without concentrating on their personal feelings it is easier.

He tells himself this, and he almost believes it.

  
  


####  July 1816

Childermass has always had a certain skill at remaining undetectable. Even outside magic, which he is sometimes frankly uncertain about whether or not he is employing, he is quiet, dressed in shadowy black, unobtrusive. It helped him as a pickpocket, and it continues to help him as a man of business.

So, with this in mind, it is perhaps not so suprizing that Norrell and Lascelles coming into the library should fail to detect him in the shadows at the back where he is reading up on an issue of magical law for Norrell.

Lascelles is complaining about something to do with commissions; Childemass rolls his eyes. Norrell, from his tone clearly cross, says, "I know, Mr Lascelles, and I am concerned as well, but what am I to do?"

"Perhaps you could try speaking to more people," says Lascelles. "You isolate yourself far too much. I know you are a scholar, but - "

"I cannot spend all my time in socializing," says Norrell. "If I am ever to succeed in pulling ahead of Strange in this race, I need to spend many hours in study. If I am seen less at parties, I cannot help that."

Lascelles sighs. "I know, but if you are not seen…"

Norrell says, "What have I got you and Childermass for if not to be seen on my behalf? Why else do I employ you?"

Lascelles shakes his head. "As to Childermass, I do not think you should rely too heavily on him. I know that you have employed him for a long time, but he really is an unsuitable servant for you in your current position."

Childermass freezes, and takes a slow breath. He had been planning to interject in this conversation at some point, but it would perhaps be better to stay here in the shadows and see how things develop. Lascelles' growing animosity toward him is a source of trouble, and if he can find out more about it, perhaps he can counter it.

"I do not see why," says Norrell. "He has always served me perfectly well."

"He is very impudent, among many other sins," says Lascelles dryly.

"Oh! As to that, I know he is not the conventional sort of servant, but - " Norrell waves a hand dismissively - "I have never much cared for such things. He serves me well."

"He is not good for your reputation. You ought to dismiss him. I am sure you can do without him. I can find you another skilled man within the month."

Norrell sighs. "No, Mr Lascelles. I have told you before that I need him, have I not?"

Lascelles leans forward. "You know I have the greatest investment in your cause, and I would hate to see you fall into trouble because your generosity was abused. After all, is that not what happened with Strange?"

Childermass could have told Lascelles that this was a mistake and, indeed, Norrell's shoulders stiffen. "I would much rather not discuss Strange at the moment. The issue at hand is Childermass."

"But the two subjects cannot be entirely detangled," says Lascelles. "Did you not say that you suspect him of having loyalties toward Strange?"

Childermass almost gives himself away there and then at the outrageousness of this. That Lascelles should intimate that he would be betray Norrell when Childermass has been twenty-six years in his service and Lascelles has known him for not yet ten is entirely insulting. But as much as he wants to contest the allegation, he stays silent and waits for Norrell's reply.

Norrell says, slowly, "I did not say exactly that. He said some very odd things when he woke from his injuries, but I expect that was the laudanum."

"Are you quite certain of that?" says Lascelles, leaning back in his chair.

"He reassured me of his loyalty."

"And can you trust that reassurance?

Norrell frowns. "I do not know why this concerns you so much, sir. I can chuse my own associates, can I not?"

"Of course you can, but as I said, I do not wish to see your kindness taken advantage of." Lascelles' voice is a soothing echo of Childermass's own tone for Norrell when he is upset, or so it seems to Childermass; a mockery of techniques Childermass has spent a long time learning, used against him by someone bent on his expulsion. It feels like having something stolen from him. 

Norrell responds to it, of course. "I suppose so."

"Then you will consider getting rid of him?"

Norrell makes a dissatisfied humming sound. "No, Mr Lascelles. I am afraid on that point I can not be moved. Firstly, Strange is out of the country at the moment. If Childermass were indeed loyal to him, he would only go to him and then we would lose track of him. But even beyond that I do not think the issue is so divided as you imply, and I cannot do without him. Childermass stays. I need him."

"How can you be sure that he is not sending hints about our doings to Strange?"

Norrell looks at Lascelles, uncertain for a moment, but then he shakes his head. "No. I trust him."

Childermass can see what Norrell almost certainly cannot: the slight tensing of Lascelles' jaw, the tightening of his shoulders. But his tone, when he speaks, is perfectly neutral and friendly. 

"You will do what is best, of course," he says. "I only give you my advice in order to assist you and English magic."

"I know that. Your concern is much appreciated." Norrell sighs. "And now if you excuse me, I will go to my study."

He picks up his book and exits. Lascelles follows after, clearly seething.

Childermass takes a moment to breathe. _I need him. I trust him._  There is so much that has been lost between them now and it terrifies him - the thought of losing control, of losing everything he has worked for - but at least there is still this.

He wonders how long that will be true.

  
  


####  December 1816

They almost miss their chance.

Childermass is alone with Norrell in the library; for once, Lascelles is off talking to people or otherwise fulfilling some sort of business that he feels Norrell is best left out of. It is not as comfortable as it used to be. These days, the silence hangs heavier between them.

All the same, Childermass thinks that it is a blessing to get to be alone with Norrell for a change. Usually, Lascelles' hovering presence distracts him from what he wants to say, and reminds Norrell of Childermass's lower status. But for now they are, for the moment, free. 

Childermass is answering letters, and Norrell is doing research for one of his few remaining commissions. It seems to calm him; he frets a great deal about the slowly-dwindling business. Perhaps that is why his guard is down. Perhaps relief in Norrell's relative calm is why Childermass's is. Whatever the reason, things feel easier between them now than they have.  For once - for the first time in a very long time - they are themselves again.

They are sat across from each other at one of the long tables, sharing ink from an inkwell between them, for convenience. It does not occur to Childermass to wonder if perhaps one of them wanted this, was hoping for this.

"Letter from a man claiming to be a magician, again," says Childermass, putting it to the side.

"Anything?"

"No. I am certain it is a fraud."

"Good," says Norrell, scratching another note into his notebook. "The last thing we need is another magician causing havoc. Strange has done enough."

Childermass hums noncommittally. Silence descends between them, but it almost feels companionable, something from the days of their past. The quiet ticking of the clock is the only sound that disturbs the stillness for a while.

"Hand me that book," says Norrell absently, gesturing at the table. Childermass rises and passes it to him and then -

\- they almost miss it, it almost passes them by -

Their hands brush, Norrell's startlingly warm against Childermass's, and Childermass almost jumps; they never touch casually like this any more, and every nerve seems intensely alive to it. His eyes drift down to Norrell's hands, and then up to his face. He knows Norrell is thinking of the same thing.

Childermass takes the book, sets it down, and touches the pads of his fingers to Norrell's. The smallest point of contact, and even that he half expects to be rejected, but Norrell takes hold of his hand and wraps his fingers around it. It is curious; they are both looking at their joined hands, as if they are not quite a part of them, or perhaps as if they do not want to look each other in the eye now.

"Sir," Childermass whispers.

Norrell's hands are trembling. He says, "Not here. Closet."

Childermass changes his grip so that their fingers are laced, and pulls him into the little antechamber off the library. The panels soften the afternoon light into dimness, so that when Childermass finally looks he can only just see the soft shattered expression on Norrell's face, as if he is trying to hold himself together and failing.

"Well?" says Childermass, with a sharp edge he did not intend.

Norrell's unsteady hands reach up and pull him down with uncommon gentleness. He goes up on his toes and Childermass reaches out to balance him, hands on his waist.

And their lips meet. At first it is stiff and almost formal, like neither of them can quite remember how they fit together. Then Norrell tilts his head and Childermass's hands tighten on his waist and suddenly it is _right_ , the way it used to be, so familiar that it aches.

Childermass inhales sharply, makes a desperate little noise despite himself at the relief of having Norrell so close for the first time in… When was the last time they had done this? Childermass can no longer remember. He cannot remember when this uneasy formality developed, this barrier that he could not break. He clutches at Norrell like a lifeline, and he was going to try not to be vulnerable, try not to shew his desperation, but he cannot pretend. This feels like a single last reprieve. A dying man's final request.

Childermass should stop this. He should leave. He should ask for something more. But he knows he will not. Instead he parts his lips and cradles Norrell's face in his hands, tries not to think about it.

_He will never be yours again,_ and he does not know where that thought came from. He is not sure it is his own. But he knows it is true.

Norrell's hands move from his jacket to his hair, where they always seem to end up when they are kissing. He sighs, and when they break for air they immediately close the distance again. Neither of them seems to want this to end. Perhaps Norrell has the same sense of inevitability he does, that feeling of awaiting the guillotine. 

_ He will never be yours again. _

Was he ever in the first place? Was this only ever borrowed time? He remembers his own apprehensions about a world that would tear them apart and he knows now that it has been done.

They break apart by a scant inch, and Childermass breathes "Oh God, I missed you," resting his forehead against Norrell's.

"I have been here the whole time," says Norrell, but his voice is trembling and Childermass knows he understands.

"It is not the same," Childermass says.

Norrell sighs, a soft uncertain sound. "I know," he says. "I am sorry. I cannot - "

Childermass presses a soft kiss to his lips. 

"We'll go to Hurtfew," Norrell whispers against his mouth, "Just us. Soon, when all this is solved and Strange is dealt with, we will go home."

Childermass curls his fingers around the back of Norrell's neck and then kisses him again with an intensity designed to wipe out his own thoughts, tries not to think of _all magician's lie and that one more than most_  or of premonitions or prophecies. Perhaps by some wild chance this will be a promise that Norrell can keep.

But life, of course, is never quite that neat, and promises made in the darkness are difficult to keep in the light. 


	11. 1817

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here's the goodbye chapter. I died writing this. I'm sorry for any pain inflicted.

####  February 1817 

"Only two rooms," says the innkeeper when they stop halfway to Yorkshire, half-frozen and tired on their journey back to catch Strange. The servants bar Childermass are already quartered, leaving just Childermass, Lascelles, and Norrell to find a place to sleep. This is the trouble; despite the awful roads, there seem to be quite a number of people taking refuge in this small unimpressive inn. 

Lascelles is puffing up to protest. Childermass prepares himself to negotiate and smooth the pomposity over. Thus far they have not actually been thrown out of any inns, and Childermass would like to keep the record intact.

"Surely you have some other rooms," says Lascelles, smiling his folded knife of a smile. "We have quite enough money to cover any costs, I assure you."

"It's a busy night," says the innkeeper. "I'm sorry, I've got nothing else for you."

"It is quite all right," says Norrell, suddenly speaking. "It does not matter. I shall share with Childermass."

Lascelles turns. "Sir, you cannot sacrifice - "

"Mr Lascelles, please. I am tired. I want to sleep. I cannot ask you to have the inconvenience of sharing with me, but Childermass is quite used to it; we have often encountered the same problem while traveling together. It does not matter."

Norrell's voice is exhausted, defeated, and Childermass suddenly cannot breath properly. It is half anxiety from what will come and half worry. Norrell has spent this entire trip distracted and drained, yet intensely on edge. How much more stress he can take Childermass does not know.

But, of course, the immediate concern is the room.

Lascelles nods, and bows slightly to Norrell, perhaps to shew his almost certainly entirely insincere gratitude.

They trudge off to their rooms. Norrell's tread is even more shuffling than usual, as if he cannot be bothered to pick up his feet. Childermass follows him in and closes the door quietly.

They do not speak at first; Childermas helps Norrell undress, and undresses himself. Norrell turns his back while Childermass puts on his nightshirt and the dressing-gown Norrell bought for him. Childermass feels nothing in particular as he pulls it on. He wonders if perhaps he is finally numb to it. 

"No fleas," says Norrell at last. Childermass is startled by it. 

"Sir?" he says.

"I was just thinking of - " and Norrell stops. He frowns and turns away, fiddling with the sleeves of his own dressing gown. "It is a better inn than some," he finishes rather weakly.

"It is," says Childermass. He knows Norrell is thinking of the same thing he is, of a night spent in clothes on a hard bed wondering what could be, and he feels a stab. Not so numb, then. A shame. 

Silence descends again. It is not entirely uncomfortable, but it is not easy either. It is, Childermass thinks, one of exhaustion. Both of them are occupied by thoughts of the day and of what will come next and of how very tired they are which is, perhaps, just as well.

Norrell climbs into bed and pulls the covers up over himself. "Are you coming to bed?" he asks.

"Not yet. There are things I need to do." 

Childermass notes the relief written all over Norrell's posture and feels the hollow echo of it within his own chest. At least they will not have to lie there together and awake remember what used to be. They have not kissed since that afternoon in the library, nor even touched at all, and Childermass has the sense that the bridge is uncrossable now.

Childermass turns away from Norrell and begins writing in his commonplace book. He resolutely does not turn to watch Norrell slowly drift off to sleep. In any case, it takes too long. It is nearly an hour before he begins to hear Norrell's gentle periodic snores. 

Even still, the thought of getting into bed beside him makes dread rise in the pit of his stomach. There are far too many memories that he does not want to bring up. He considers not sleeping, staying up in the cramped little desk all night. He has enough work to do. 

But he will only be tired and drawn in the morning; he can do without sleep, but the pace of the journey is pushing every one. He cannot afford to intentionally make it worse.

He works for another hour, and then, when his eyes are gritty and his hands are unsteady, he crawls into bed, his back to Norrell. He is careful not to wake him up, and indeed, when he settles down Norrell's snoring is uninterrupted.

It feels strange, to be this close to him again without being able to turn over and touch him. Childermass wonders when feigned separation had become a real one, when hiding their affection from outsiders had becoming hiding it from each other. When was the last time they had slept together like this? It may have been before he was shot. It has certainly been more a question of months, possibly one of years.

Despite his exhaustion, he cannot sleep. The presence beside him reminds him again too much of that first time, when he had reached out and later found that Norrell had, in his own way, been reaching back. 

He had thought it hopeless at the time. He had thought himself bound to manage his feelings unreciprocated all his career, and he had thought perhaps that was what despair might be. But that thought, somewhere, had contained a seed of hope. He does not think he acknowledged it until the night they had kissed that failed first time, but even when the possibility had been extremely remote, it had been there.

But now… Now that is gone. Childermass wishes he knew how to bring it back, but it is too late, and he has other things to concentrate on. 

He does not know what the future holds. But he knows that, for the next few hours, he will have a reprieve. If he can ever manage to find it, at least.

Childermass falls asleep trying, for once, not to think of waking up next to Norrell. That thought is no longer a comfort.

  
  


####  February 1817

The air of Hurtfew is tight with tension. This has always been their refuge, the place where they can be safe, but Childermass feels continuously on edge here now. Had they not been planning to come back properly? He has a feeling in his bones that they never will now. Perhaps this is the last time.

He keeps on asking his cards about what is to come, but suspects they are still as bewildered as he is.

For a few nights Norrell avoids Childermass and Lascelles both, perhaps because they both keep trying to put their views forward. As it were. Childermass knows he should be more subtle, but the time for that has passed. He should not have invited Lascelles in at all, but now he needs to make Norrell see what a mistake it was.

At last one night Childermass comes in at Norrell's normal undressing time. 

"Do you want me to help you, sir?" he asks.

"I have been doing without you so far," says Norrell, unbuttoning the top button of his waistcoat.

"I know. But do you want my help?"

Norrell sighs. "Yes. I suppose so." He finishes unbuttoning his waistcoat and holds his arms out for Childermass to undo the small fiddly buttons at his wrists.

Childermass wraps the fingers of one hand around one wrist to hold it steady, undoes the buttons. He has a terrible urge to slide his hand down to Norrell's and twine their fingers together, but he does not let himself touch Norrell's skin. Whatever they had that allowed him to do that once, it is gone now.

He finishes the other wrist, unties Norrell's neckcloth, the buttons at his neck. These are things Norrell might do himself some days, but now Childermass is keenly aware of the sense of time running out. Perhaps this is the closest he will ever be to Norrell again. If he cannot reach out and touch him or kiss him, he will do this as long as he is permitted.

As he finishes the buttons down the neck and pulls the shirt off, he says, "Lascelles is - "

" _Please_ ," says Norrell, "Please, can you go five minutes without warning me off of Mr Lascelles?"

There is a tense silence. Then Norrell turns away, presenting his back with the vest to be unlaced and, conveniently, leaving him unable to look at Childermass. "It is only that your quarrels disconcert me. I go to one of you, and you are constantly denouncing the other."

"You shouldn't trust him," says Childermass, folding Norrell's shirt.

"You advised me to in the first place." 

"Which was a mistake on my part, but you should not have let him get so close, sir. You cannot believe he will stay with you."

"And will you?"

Childermass flinches. Being shot had hurt less at the time. Somehow it is worse that Norrell is not facing him. "Why would I not?"

Norrell's head dips down to gaze at his feet, such a familiar nervous habit by now. "I know you went to see Strange, and I know you have sympathies for him. For his form of magic."

Childermass opens his mouth and then closes it. He could lie and say it is not true - but it _would_  be a lie. He does not think Norrell's form of magic, his idea of magic, is the only one that should exist. He remembers his promise; if Strange loses he will leave Norrell and help him.

But it was Norrell that helped him find himself. It was Norrell who sat by him holding his hand on days when he hurt too much to move, body or mind. It was Norrell who urged him to eat when he would not. He is not going to forget that, and even if he finds himself in the position of fighting against Norrell's professional cause, he is always going to have a personal attachment to him.

For Norrell, though, there is no distinction. His magic is himself and he is his magic. If Childermass tells him any of this, he will only take it as proof that he should not trust him.

"You are the last master I shall ever have," he says, not for the first time.

"I do not know what that means," says Norrell. 

And, in truth, neither does Childermass. He helps Norrell silently out of his vest and turns his back while Norrell puts on his nighttime vest and night shirt. He kneels, helping Norrell out of his shoes and undoing the buttons on the sides of his breeches.

Strange how this feels like a reversal, the final unwinding of the long spool of their lives together; he has helped Norrell undress a hundred or a thousand times and it never seemed like an ending, but things are different now.

When he finishes, he steps back from the bed. Norrell is staring at him as if he wants something. 

"What?" says Childermass, crossing his arms.

"I am afraid," says Norrell.

Childermass acts without thinking, for once. He sets the clothes down on the bed, because Norrell would fuss if he had done any thing less, and gathers him into his arms.

For a moment, he expects protest, tenses for it, but it is just as it has always been; Norrell stiffens for a moment and then relaxes. He buries his head in Childermass's shoulder and shivers.

"Whatever happens," says Childermass steadily, "You'll be all right."

"But Strange - "

"Is not a bad man. You know he is not. You two will make up your quarrel."

"And if we do not?"

"Then I shall do something about it, sir."

This seems to strike Norrell rather oddly, but he does not comment. He only draws back and looks up at Childermass.

Childermass wants to kiss him then, but he cannot quite close that distance. He remembers his premonition, _he will never be yours again_ , the feeling of finality. Was that a self-fulfilling prophecy? Does it matter, if it is fulfilled?

Norrell says, "Thank you, Childermass," but unhappily. Childermass wishes he could comfort him properly, but he cannot reach that either. He wonders if he has forgotten how.

The stairs to his room in the attic seem very long and very steep. Somehow he still cannot bring himself to care.

He spends the next few days trying to convince Norrell to trust him again. To reason with Strange, or to at least find the ostensible letter. None of it works.

Three days after that first conversation Childermass leaves Hurtfew, and he is too busy even to mourn.

 

####  March 1817

Mourning does come. Not quite in the ways he expects. It comes in silences, in the duties he no longer has, in days spent researching or traveling for his own reasons rather than Norrell's. It comes in freedom, or in aimlessness, if there is a difference. 

It feels...cut-off, unresolved. He had always subconsciously intended to go back. Perhaps in a few days, perhaps in a few weeks, whenever Norrell had come to his senses and made up with Strange. Being there would have been better, but not essential. When Vinculus had turned up the matter had become urgent and obvious, and he had decided for certain to return. But he cannot, and he is missing far more than his memorandum-book now. There are so many things he cannot replace.

Segundus talks to him sometimes. Childermass wants to tell him to go away, but he cannot bring himself to. The man is well-meaning, and he has shewn Childermass far too much hospitality for Childermass to want to insult him. Anyway he is too tired.

Unfortunately, Segundus can be remarkably perceptive at times. 

"I imagine you miss Mr Norrell," he says at the breakfast table one morning. Soft, gentle. Childermass cannot figure out what he wants that he should use so much gentleness with him.

"A bit," he says, sticking a knife into the jam.

Segundus looks at him over his teacup, as though he can see the lie. Perhaps he can; he can see magic. "I should think more than a bit." Still terribly, terribly kind. 

It is dangerous, kindness; Childermass does not have the sorts of barriers he ought to in order to withstand it. There are words catching in his throat that he does not want to say, and yet cannot restrain, not under this velvet-gloved inquisition.

"I still get up thinking I have to help him dress," he says, distantly. "I wake up thinking that I ought to check the library and see if he has stayed awake all night, or that I have to make sure his breakfast is as he likes it."

"How long were you together?" says Segundus. Childermass thinks _you do not know how appropriate a question that is_  but he responds to it as if it means what Segundus thinks it does.

"Twenty-seven years," he says. "Come September, twenty-eight, it would have been."

"Oh," says Segundus softly. "That is more than half your life, is it not?"

"Yes. It is." More nearly two-thirds.

"I suppose the habits of such a long span of time are not so easily broken."

Childermass sighs. "No," he says. "I suppose it will take time."

"You are welcome here as long as you need to stay," says Segundus, for what must be the twentieth time. Childermass does not know why he keeps insisting this. Childermass is already a rather irregular guest, leaving at odd hours with Vinculus in tow to shew off in various parts of England. 

But he does not comment on this. He says, "Thank you," and leaves the breakfast table.

Even Vinculus gets in on the act. 

"Cheer up, old son," he says, clapping Childermass on the back. "You're a free man now."

"I never said I wanted to be," Childermass snaps. Although perhaps that is not quite true. Had he not wanted to be, once and many times? But not like this.

How else could there have been, though? What he had wanted - really wanted - was to be Norrell's equal and his partner in acknowledged fact, the way Strange had been. But that could not happen. Servant or alone - those are his options. Perhaps, in time, given the choice, he might have taken alone, particularly given how far towards that end Norrell had already pushed him. He does not know any more. But it is a choice that is no longer his.

"I could never be what I wanted," he tells Vinculus later, drunk in a pub in his way to Manchester where the new society of magicians wants to take a look at the book of the Raven King. "Never could be what he wanted."

Vinculus gives an enigmatic shrug. "Can we ever be what our other halves want or need?"

"How do you know? You were married five times. You're not a proper example."

Vinculus grins at him. "It's proof of the concept, isn't it? But does that mean it's not important?"

"You sound like a ragged-arsed street magician," says Childermass, taking another pull at his ale. 

"There's a good reason for that." 

"How did you know, anyway?" Childermass cannot remember any one guessing before, or at least not to his face. "You said other half. How did you know?"

Vinculus raises his eyebrows. "Was that a secret? Did you two think you were good at keeping it hidden?"

"Nobody else said any thing, and they would have." Respectability, Childermass remembers blearily, although what was so important about that seems very distant right now. 

"None of them wanted to." Vinculus shakes his head and tuts. "They see what they think makes sense. But you forget I read your cards."

"You _drew_  my cards. You could not read them."

"And yet I still see more than any of them did."

Childermass takes another drink and then another. "It does not matter. There is nothing to see now. He is gone."

"Endings are inevitable. One of you would have died, or gone off, or had a fight and stormed out." Vinculus shrugs. "But this is how it was always going to end. Our paths are already written."

Childermass is not sure he believes this; his cards are one thing, but they do not tell him what will happen, only what _might_. The idea of solid, immutable prophecy, of being locked into a single fate, annoys him. And the inevitability of endings is no comfort when you are still reeling from one.

He throws himself into his work instead. If he cannot have everything he wants, he can at least claim magic, make his mark here. He knew Strange and Norrell both; that counts for something. In scattered moments he catches himself being glad they have left, for now he has a chance to be something more than what he had ever reckoned.

But the gladness, he thinks, will always be mixed with sorrow for what he has lost. 


	12. Epilogue: 1818

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't do this very often, but suggested listening for this chapter is [The Wrote And The Writ by Johnny Flynn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3kB3fA7YEcg), which partially inspired it. As ever, thanks to Moll for all the help. She was involved in every stage of this.
> 
> So this is the last chapter, and was...also one of the first things I wrote in this fic, and one of the things that made me decide I was definitely going to do it. So I'm doubly emotional about that. It's been really nice, and I'm proud of what I've accomplished? I've written 100k of fic about these guys, y'all. I'm really happy that some of you stuck around to see it and thank you so much for all your support.

Life goes on.

It does not feel like it should, but it does. Childermass gets a sharp reminder of this when he receives a summons from Mr Robinson & Sons, Norrell's former solicitors.

He leaves Starecross the day after and goes down to York, leaving a note to Segundus and a word to Vinculus to stay out of trouble, if that is possible.

"Ah. Mr Childermass." Mr Robinson seems as pleasant as ever, that unusual unsolictor-ish shininess still in place, even over ten years hence.

"Mr Robinson." He has not seen the man in years, but he does not waste time. He nods and sits down in a chair. "You said this was a matter of Mr Norrell's estate."

"It is," says Mr Robinson, frowning as if thrown off by Childermass's unceremonious dismissal of the appropriate small talk rituals, but Childermass wants this to be over as soon as possible and he has no intention of following through with any time-wasting, no matter how personally unobjectionable he finds the man.

"I thought a man had to be missing seven years to be declared dead in absentia. Or else there would have to be an inquest. Which I assume has not happened in my absence."

"No, certainly not. You would have to give evidence."

"I know," says Childermass, grimacing. "Then why?"

"You see, Mr Norrell's will has a clause." Mr Robinson puts his reading glasses on, clears his throat, and draws a document out from desk. "If he disappeared under unusual circumstances this was to be carried out when a year and a day had passed. Perhaps you know the significance of that."

Childermass waves. "It has to do with magic and magical law. I shall not trouble you."

"Thank you. Of course. Well, in any case, you are the executor of Mr Norrell's estate - I assume that is not a surprize."

"Not particularly, no." It seems a natural extension of man-of-business, although Childermass is a little relieved to learn that this duty, at least, is still his. Some evidence that Norrell still trusted him up to the end. Even if it was only enough not to change his will.

"Good. Of course it has now been precisely a year and a day since he disappeared, as of last week. And so now that clause comes in effect and you are to carry it out."

"Yes, yes." Childermass sighs. It is probably something to do with Strange. "Go on, then."

The solicitor nods. "Mr Strange was to have temporary custody of the library, unless seven years passed with no word, at which point it would be his - "

Of course it would, thinks Childermass tiredly, whose else would it be -

"Although of course that is complicated by the fact that Mr Strange and the library are both now no longer apparently in England. The first point is easily dealt with; if Mr Strange predeceased Mr Norrell or if for some reason he refused, this duty was to fall to you."

Childermass blinks. Before he has time to absorb the fact that he is at least in the running even if in second place, then the fact that the books are not here for him to claim anyway, Mr Robinson continues.

"Hurtfew Abbey was to be in your custody under the same terms - seven years of guardianship and then inheritance - along with the money to maintain it. That is to say, most of the estate, with some bequests removed."

"What," says Childermass flatly.

"Is something unclear?"

"He left me Hurtfew?"

"Yes," says the solicitor. "As a guardianship and then to inherit, as I said. Of course this is complicated considerably by the fact that Hurtfew is no longer available, shall we say. However, there is an income which was to be provided for your use during your guardianship period, and I believe you now have power of attorney over his estate. It will take some time to settle. I expect challenges, given the rather complicated nature of the will. But the income is certain." Mr Robinson fiddles with his spectacles for a moment. "Each servant also gets a month's pay, and several have larger bequests. I would appreciate your help in tracking these individuals down."

Childermass does not speak. He thinks he might have understood approximately one word in every five of this. Right now he feels entirely incapable of doing anything that is not sitting here in stunned silence.

 _You left me Hurtfew_ , he thinks. _You left me Hurtfew. You left Strange the library and I knew you would but you left me Hurtfew._  His chest feels tight and his eyes are stinging. It does not matter so much, somehow, that Hurtfew is not here for him to inherit. The will is still there, solid proof that Norrell not only trusted him to execute his final wishes, he also trusted him with his home.

"The London house was left to Mr Strange," adds the solicitor. Childermass hardly notices this. The London house means nothing except insofar as it represents the gradual loss of something enormously important; he is glad not he does not even have to think of dealing with it.

He takes a deep breath, gathering himself, and blinks a few times, trying to clear his vision. "Where does that leave me?" he says. "With everything."

"Well, the income is yours. The terms of the will are very clear: it begins in a year and a day if Mr Norrell disappears. The estate may be...more complicated. I expect challenges to the will. But of course I drew it up myself and believe it all in order. You should be the guardian of it within the year, as it currently stands."

Childermass nods. This, too, does not matter so much. He will merely go on managing what is left, as he has been all these years. The income is useful, but not overly important. He has savings.  
  
Robinson clears his throat. "There is one other thing. A letter." He hands a small envelope to Childermass.

Childermass takes it and tucks it in his pocket. "Am I required to read it here?"

"No."

"And do you have anything else for me?"

"Not at the moment. There are some things to straighten out and then I will make the arrangements needed, for which I could use your assistance. If you can stay in the city for a few days, I would appreciate that."

"I can manage it, I think." Childermass rises, bows shallowly to Robinson, and exits.

Back in his lodgings, he takes off his greatcoat, puts the letter on the desk, and finds some supper. He takes his time at eating it, refusing to rush. He lights a candle at the writing desk, and pours a glass of whiskey, and sits down.

He opens the letter.

_Childermass,_

_You are, as you have no doubt discovered, my executor. Please see that the bequests to the servants are properly made. I have witnessed what servants with a grudge can do to a man's reputation when he is gone and I have no desire to be slandered posthumously. If you deem any other measures necessary to protect me, take them._

_I expect after a year and a day I shall not return, so consider this my final words to you. Please also see that Hurtfew is kept in good repair and when you die, leave it to someone who will do the same. You are the only one who understands how important it was to me in life. I believe I have left you sufficient funds to be able to carry out this instruction._

_Yrs now from Eternity or other parts unknown,_

_Gilbert Norrell_

Childermass puts the letter down. He blinks and breathes slowly, composing himself.

The letter is undated and he cannot tell if its brusqueness hides fondness - as so many of Norrell's letters have - or if it represents the newer coldness between them. When was it written? In Hurtfew, or in their first year in London, or in their last?

The trouble with Norrell, he supposes, is that no matter how well they knew each other, there was always too much between the lines. It seems appropriate that this is how it should end.

He folds the letter and puts it in his pocket. He thinks about burning it, cutting the connection, but right now he cannot quite bear to.

Later on, they hold a memorial service. Childermass is still in town, helping Robinson find the people in Norrell's bequests, so he goes. Somewhat perversely, he wears his oldest and most worn clothes, ones he has had since before he came to work for Norrell. Perhaps that shews a lack of respect, but it feels more like an assertion of a history that few here have. In these clothes he had known Norrell, and in them he will say goodbye.

It is organized by some of the new magicians who perhaps feel a debt to Strange and Norrell. It is in a church; Childermass does not know how he feels about that. A church is, after all, respectable, but Norrell never had much time for religion. To make matters worse, it is a church in London, perhaps because since it is for both Strange and Norrell, Yorkshire would not be appropriate. All the same, Childermass thinks that if it had to be in a house of God, York Minster would have served better. The first of Norrell's miracles.

Mrs Strange is not there. He cannot blame her. He himself does not recognize the men who have now been repeatedly presented to him as alternately heroes and villains in the newspapers. That is not Strange, and this is not Norrell.

Childermass wonders if there was one Norrell that was only ever his. Perhaps, in the end, the trouble was that that Norrell could not remain; he was subsumed under the pressure of a life lived in the public eye, under the pressure of Strange's Norrell and Lascelles' Norrell.

He wonders also if perhaps he is getting a touch sentimental, and whether or not he ought perhaps to have a drink instead of sticking around here. Vinculus is somewhere in London, probably out at a tavern. Childermass could go and join him and not have to think about this.

But he _will_  think about it. He will never really stop thinking about it, he knows that. Magic is back to England but Norrell has not yet loosed his hold on Childermass, for all that he might as well be dead.

The portrait of Strange and Norrell, the one that caused so much fuss at the time, is hanging there front and center. He can hear the whispers as he files into the line. Paying his respects, although after twenty-seven years he thinks he might be finished with those. Perhaps this is more a question of letting go.

He stops, takes a moment to look at Norrell's face and breath, remembering. Twenty-seven years.

How do you sum up a life lived together after it is over? Cinder toffee, apples that taste of pear, a copy of Revelations Of Thirty-six Other Worlds, a threadbare dressing gown he can't stand to wear anymore. A few letters tucked into his pocket, more he had always intended to go back for but has now lost. A voice at the back of his mind that scolds him sharply when he dares do magic, but also when he begins to think of himself as not worthy of surviving. The first person to use his Christian name for a long, long time, and the first person to believe he could be something more than the gutter rat he'd started as. 'My dear' and 'love' in the silent midnight darkness. A sense of purpose.

It is not enough.

Childermass takes a deep breath, and leaves the church, and goes back to Starecross, because he cannot go home any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this story is also where the Magic Circle series picks up.


End file.
